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STOJFORD-VWVlERSiniY-UBEAief 


CAMBRIDGE  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


The  English  Writings 

of 
Abraham  Cowley 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 
Born   1618 
Died   1667 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

ESSAYS,   PLAYS 

AND 

SUNDRY     VERSES 


THE    TEXT     EDITED     BY 

A.   R.   WALLER,   M.A. 


Cambridge  : 

at  the  University  Press 

1906 


605575 


CAMBRIDGE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS  WAREHOUSE, 

C.   F.  CLAY,  Manager. 

Imam:    FETTER  LANE,  E.C. 

•iMgitg:  JO,  WELLINGTON  STREET. 


■.ilnia:   f.  A.  BROCKHAUS. 

«<ti  lor*:  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS. 

DniUl  ink  eiUBlU:  HACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Ltu. 


[Aii  Jiigkli  rtttrvild.\ 


NOTE. 

TPHE  first  volume  of  this  edition  of  the  Enj^lish 

writings  of  Cowley  contained  the  whole  of  the 
poems  that  were  collected  for  the  folio  which  appeared 
the  year  after  his  death.  The  present  volume  contains 
the  poems  not  included  in  the  folio,  its  prose  contents 
and  Cowley's  English  plays. 

The  earlier  writings  have  been  printed  from  a  copy 
of  the  third  edition  of  1637,  preserved  in  the  Univer- 
sity Library,  Cambridge  ;  but,  as  that  copy  is  imperfect, 
transcripts  of  the  missing  portions  have  been  made 
from  two  other  copies  and  the  deficiencies  supplied 
thereby.  The  collation  of  these  similarly  dated  copies 
has  shown  that  they  differ  in  a  few  passages.  In  the 
notes  I  have  printed  the  variants  noted  in  a  collation 
of  the  first  and  second  editions  of  1633  ^^^  1636. 
It  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  me  to  remind  the  reader 
that,  of  these  earlier  writings,  Pyramus  and  Tbisbe  was 
written  at  the  age  *  of  ten  yeeres,'  Constantius  and  Pbile- 
tus  when  *two  yeeres  older'  and  that  the  volume 
entitled  Poeticall  Blossomes  was  first  published  when 
Cowley  was  but  fifteen. 

The  Saiyre  called  The  Puritan  and  the  Papist  seems 
entitled  to  a  definite  place  among  the  works  of  Cowley 
and  I  have  therefore  printed  it  as  part  of  the  present 
text.  By  the  kindness  of  the  authorities  of  Bodley's 
Library,  Oxford,  it  has  been  set  up  from  photographs 
of  the  very  rare  first  edition  of  1643. 

The  English  play  The  Guardian^  and  its  later  recen- 
sion Cutter  of  Coleman-Streety  follow  the  first  editions  of 


NOTE 

1650  and  1663  respectively.  They  were  apparently 
written  in  1641  and  1658  respectively.  Pepys  (ed. 
Wheatley,  ii,  p.  155)  records  in  1661  that  he  went 
'after  dinner  to  the  Ofwra,  where  there  was  a  new  play 
("Cutter  of  Coleman  Street"),  made  in  the  year  1658, 
with  reflections  much  upon  the  late  times,  and  it  being 
the  first  time,  the  pay  was  doubled,  and  so  to  save 
money,  my  wife  and  I  went  up  into  the  gallery,  and 
there  saw  very  well;    and  a  very  good  play  it  is.' 

The  Proposition  For  the  Advancement  Of  Experimental 
Pbilosopby  was  printed  in  1661.  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr  W.  Aldis  Wright  for  the  loan  of  a  copy  of  that 
year  for  the  purpose  of  reproduction.  The  essay  was 
mcluded  in  the  prose  miscellanies  of  the  folio  of  1668 
referred  to  above,  but  the  important  Preface  was  omitted. 
The  tract  is  given  here,  therefore,  as  it  was  published 
in  1661. 

The  Discourse  By  way  of  Vision,  Concerning  the  Govern- 
ment of  Oliver  Cromwell,  published  also  in  i66r,  has  been 
printed  from  the  folio  of  1668  and  so  have  the  Several 
Discourses  by  way  of  Essays,  in  Verse  and  Prose. 

At  the  end  of  these  (see  p.  462)  1  have  added  a 

ftoem  which  was  printed  in  the  ninth  edition  of  Cow- 
ey's  works  (folio,  1700,  Printed  for  Henry  Herringman, 
etc.).  Attention  is  drawn  to  this  poem  on  the  title 
page  of  the  ninth  edition  by  the  words  '  To  which  are 
added,  some  Verses  by  the  AUTHOR  \  Never  before 
Printed.'  And  I  have  ventured  to  add,  also  as  part  of 
the  text,  the  unfinished  poem  on  the  Civi>  War  first 
printed  in  1679  (see  Cowley's  reference  to  this  in  the 
first  volume  of  the  present  edition,  p.  9). 

I  have  not  included  The  Four  Ages  of  England,  or 
The  Iron  Age,  1648,  as  it  was  specifically  disavowed  by 
Cowley  in  the  Prefece  to  the  folio  edition  of  his  works 


NOTE 

referred  to  above  (see  the  first  volume  of  the  present 
edition,  p.  4) :  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  any  reason 
why  his  statement  should  be  doubted.  Nor  have 
I  included  A  Satyre  against  SeparatistSy  1642,  also 
attributed  to  Cowley. 

A  few  verses  attributed  to  Cowley  are  printed  in 
the  appendix  and  notes  :  of  these,  the  lines  Upon  the 
Happie  Birth  of  the  Duke  may  be  regarded  as  certainly 
his,  although  he  never  included  them  in  his  works  ; 
and  probably  the  verses  beginning  *  Come,  Poetry^  and 
with  you  bring  along'  (p.  489)  are  his  also  :  the  edition 
in  which  they  are  to  be  found  appeared  during  the 
lifetime  of  his  literary  executor  (Bishop  Thomas  Sprat, 

1635—1713)- 

As  previously  announced  it  is  not  intended  to  print 

Cowley's  Latin  poems  as  part  of  the  present  edition. 

Material  for  a  Supplement  of  Notes,  biographical, 

bibliographical  and  critical,  is  being  collected  and  will 

be  published,  it  is  hoped,  at  no  very  distant  date. 


A.  R.  WALLER. 


University  Press, 
Cambridge. 

12  September^  1906. 


Vll 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

Poeticall  Blostomes x 

Piniinus  and  Thisbc 29 

Sylva 45 

Lxivtfi  Riddle 67 

Thi?  Puritan  and  the  Papist 149 

The  Guardian 159 

A  Prop€Niition  for  the  Advancement  of  Experimental  Philosophy  .  243  ^ 

Cutter  of  Coleman-Strret 259 

A  Discourse  By  way  of  Vision,  Concerning  the  Government  of 

Oliver  Cromwrll 342 

Several  Discourses  by  way  of  Essays,  in  Verse  and  Prose  377 

A  Poem  on  the  Civil  War 465 

Ap|)endix 483 

Notes 487 

Index  of  titles 496 

Index  of  first  lines 498 


POETICALL 

BLOSSOMES. 


I'be  third  Edition. 


Enlarged  by  the  Author. 


—Jit  surculus  Arbor. 


London. 

Printed  by  £.  P.  for  Henry  Seilb, 

and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop  at  the  signe 

of  the  Tygers-head  in  Fleet-street 

between  the  Bridge  and 

the  Cenduit 

1637. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Poeticall  Blossomes i 

Piramus  and  Thisbc 29 

Sylva 45 

Loves  Riddle 67 

The  Puritan  and  the  Papist 149 

The  Guardian 159 

A  Proposition  for  the  Advancement  of  Experimental  Philosophy  .  243 

Cutter  of  Coleman-Strret 159 

A  Discourse  By  way  of  Vision,  Concerning  the  Government  of 

Oliver  Cromwell 341 

Several  Discourses  by  way  of  Essays,  in  Verse  and  Prose  377 

A  Poem  on  the  Civil  War 465 

Appendix 483 

Notes 487 

Index  of  titles 496 

Index  of  Brst  lines 498 


POETICALL 

BLOSSOMES. 


The  third  Edition. 


Enlarged  by  the  Author. 


—^t  iurculus  Arbor. 


London. 

Printed  by  E.  P.  for  Henry  Skilb, 

and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop  at  the  signe 

of  the  Tygers-head  in  Fleet-street 

between  the  Bridge  and 

the  Conduit 

1637- 


TO 

THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

AND   RIGHT  REVEREND   FATHER 

IN  GOD,  JOHN  LORD  BISHOP 

OF    LINCOLNE   AND    DEANS 
OF    WESTMINSTER 

MY  LORD, 

/  might  wtU  fiari,  leatt  thest  my  rude  and  unpelisht 
/intty  thould  offend  your  Honourable  survay;  hut  that  I  hope  your 
Nohlentiie  will  rather  smile  at  tht  faults  committed  by  a  Child, 
then  (ensure  them.  Howsoever  I  disire  your  Lordships  pardon, 
for  presenting  things  so  unworthy  to  your  view,  and  to  accept  the 
good  will  of  him,  who  in  all  dutit  is  bound  to  be 


most  humble  servant. 
Abraham  Cowley. 


To  the  Reader. 


IT)  EADER  (I  know  not  yet  whether  Gentle  or  no)  Some, 
Xv  I  know,  have  beenc  angrie(I  dare  not  assume  the  honour 
of  their  envie)  at  my  Poetical!  boldnes,  and  blamed  in  mine, 
what  commends  other  fruits,  earliness:  others,  who  are  either 
of  a  weake  laith,  or  strong  malice,  have  thought  me  like  a  Pipe, 
which  never  sounds  but  when  'lis  Mowed  in,  and  read  me, 
not  as  .Abraham  Coxv//y,  but  Aulhirtm  ananymum:  to  the  first 
I  answer,  that  it  is  an  envious  frost  which  nippesthe  Blossomes, 
because  they  appeare  quickly:  to  the  latter,  that  he  is  the  worst 
homicide  who  strives  to  murtiier  anochers  feme;  to  both,  that 
it  is  a  ridiculous  foltic  to  condcmne  or  laugh  at  the  starres, 
because  the  Moone  and  Surmc  shine  brighter.  The  small  fire 
I  have  is  rather  blowne  then  extinguished  by  this  wind.  For 
the  itch  of  Pocsie  by  being  angered  encreaseth,  by  rubbing, 
spreads  farther;  which  appeares  in  that  I  have  ventured  upon 
this  third  Edition.  What  though  it  be  negledted?  It  is  not, 
I  am  sure,  the  first  bookc,  which  hath  lighted  Tobacco,  or 
been  imploycd  by  Cooks,  and  Groacers.  If  in  all  mens 
judgements  it  suffer  shipwracke,  it  shall  something  content 
mce,  that  it  hath  pleased  My  scife  and  the  Bookseller.  In  it 
you  shall  finde  one  argument  (and  I  hope  I  shall  need  no  more) 
to  confute  unbelievers :  which  is,  that  as  mine  age,  and 
consequently  experience  (which  is  yet  but  little)  hath  cncreased, 
so  they  have  not  left  my  Pocsie  flagging  behind  them.  I  should 
not  bee  angrie  to  see  any  one  burne  my  Pyramus,  and  Thiibe, 
nay  1  would  doe  it  my  sclfe,  but  that  I  hope  a  pardon  may 
easily  bee  gotten  for  the  errors  of  ten  yeeres  age.  My  Cennantia 
and  Philtlus  confesseth  mec  two  yeeres  older  when  I  writ  it. 
The  rest  were  made  since  upon  sevcrall  occasions,  and  perhaps 
doe  not  belie  the  time  of  their  birth.  Such  as  they  arc,  they 
were  created  by  mee,  but  their  fate  lies  in  your  hands,  it  is 
onely  you,  can  effect,  that  neither  the  Bookc-sellcr  repent 
himseife  of  his  charge  in  printing  them,  nor  I  of  my  labour 
in  composing  them.     Farewell. 

A.  C. 


To  his  deare  Friend  and  Schoole-fcUow  Abra- 
ham Cowley,  on  his  flourishing  and 
hopefull  Blossomes. 

NAture  we  say  itcaytt,  btiautt  mr  Age 
Is  went  thtn  wire  tht  Timet  af  old :  The  Stage 
And  Histories  tht  firmer  times  dtdart: 
In  tbtst  Bur  latter  Dayes  what  drfeiis  are 
Experience  ttachtth.  What  then  f  shall  wtt  blame 
Nature  yer  this?     Not  w;   let  us  diclame 
Rathir  against  our  Selves  :    'tis  we  Decay, 
Net  She :   Sbie  is  the  same  every  way 
She  was  at  first.     Cowley,  ihau  prov'st  this  truth. 
Ceuld  ever  firmer  Age  hrag  ef  a  Youth 
Se  firward  at  these  yeeres?     Ceuld  Naso  write 
Thus  yeung  such  wittie  Poems  f     TuLLl's  mtte 
Of  Eloquence,  at  this  age  was  net  stent. 
Ner  ytt  was  Cato's  Judgement,  at  Tbirteene 
Se  great  as  thine,     Suppese  it  were  se;  yet 
He  Cic'ro's  Elequenct,  TuLLV  the  fVit 
Of  Ovid  wanted:    Ovid  tee  came  farre 
In  Judgement  behind  Cato.      Thtrtferi  art 
Nene  ef  all  equall  unte  Thee,  se  pretty, 
Se  Eloquent,  judicious,  and  IVitiy, 
Let  the  world's  spring  time  but  produce  and  show 
Such  Blossomes  as  i^  Writings  are,  and  know. 
Then  (not  till  then)  shall  my  opinion  be. 
That  It  is  Nature  faileth,  and  not  wee. 

Bbm.  Mastxu. 


To  his  Friend  and  Schoolc-fellow  Abraham 
Cowley,  on  his  Poetical! 


Anj,  tobtn  Youths  of  tender  Age  they  tee 
ExpresuHg  Cato,  in  their  Gravity, 


M   .....     ., 

Judgement,  tmJ  Wit,  wHi  e/ienlimes  report. 

fbej  tbtnie  their  thread  tf  Life  exceeding  soni. 

Bui  my  tfiinien  ii  ntt  so  of  Thcc, 

For  theu  shalt  Uvi,  to  all  Posterity. 

These  gifts  will  never  let  thee  dyt^  for  Death 

Can  net  bereave  thee  ef  thy  l^me,  though  breath. 

Let  snarling  Criticks  spend  their  braines  to  find 

ji  fault,  though  there  be  none;    This  is  my  mind; 

Let  him  that  carptth  with  his  vipers   Tongue, 

Thinie  with  himselfe  what  he  could  doe  as  young. 
But  if  the  Springing  Blossorocs,  thus  rare  bet, 
JVhat  ripen'd  Fruit  shall  we  hereafter  see  ? 

Rob.  Meade, 

Condiscipulus. 


To  the  Reader. 


I. 


Icall'd  tht  httikiiCd  Mun  Melpomene, 
And  teld  hir  what  sad  Story  I  would  wrtti: 
Shee  W4pt  at  hiar'mg  such  a  Tragedu, 
Thaigh  want  in  mturnejull  Dittits  te  delight. 
If  thou  disUkt  that  sorrowjuU  lints ;    Thin  innv 
My  Muii  with  teares,  nat  with  Conceits  did  flow. 


II. 

And  as  shee  my  unabler  quill  did  guide. 

Her  briny  ttares  did  on  the  paper  fall. 

If  then  umquall  numbers  bee  espied, 

Ob  Reader  I    doe  net  that  my  error  call, 

Bui  ihinie  her  tearts  dtfac^t  it,  and  blame  then 
My  Muses  griefe,  and  nat  my  mitsing  Pen. 

Abraham  Cowley. 


CONSTANTIA 

AND 

PHILETUS. 

I. 

I   Sing  two  constant  Lovers  various  fate, 
The  hopes,  and  feares  which  equally  attend 
Their  loves :   Their  rivals  envie,  Parents  hate ; 
I  sing  their  sorrowfull  life,  and  tragicke .  end. 
Assist  me  this  sad  story  to  rehearse 
You  Gods,  and  be  propitious  to  my  verse. 

2. 

In  Florence^  for  her  stately  buildings  fam'd, 

And  lofty  roofes  that  emulate  the  skie ; 

There  dwelt  a  lovely  Mayd  Constantia  nam'd 

RenownM,  as  mirrour  of  all  Italy. 

Her  lavish  nature  did  at  first  adorne, 
With  Pallas  soule  in  Cytherea^s  forme« 

3- 
And  framing  her  attractive  eyes  so  bright, 
Spent  all  her  wit  in  studie,  that  they  might 
Keepe  th'earth  from  Chaosy  and  eternall  night; 
But  envious  Death  destroy'd  their  glorious  light. 

Expect  not  beauty  then,  since  shee  did  part; 

For  in  her  Nature  wasted  all  her  Art. 

4- 

Her  hayre  was  brighter  then  the  beams  which  are 

A  Crowne  to  PhcebuSy  and  her  breath  so  sweet. 

It  did  transcend  Arabian  odours  farre. 

Or  th'smelling  Flowers,  wherewith  the  Spring  doth  greet 
Approaching  Summer,  teeth  like  falling  snow 
For  white,  were  placed  in  a  double  row. 

7 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 
5. 

Her  wit  excell'd  sill  praise,  ill  admiration, 

And  speech  was  so  attraAive  it  might  be 

A  meanes  to  cause  great  Pallas  indignation, 

And  raise  an  envie  from  that  Deity. 

The  mayden  Lillyes  at  her  lovely  sight 

Waxt  pue  with  envie,  and  from  thence  grew  white. 

6. 

She  was  in  birth  and  parentage  as  high 

As  in  her  fortune  great,  or  beauty  rare, 

And  to  her  vcrtuous  mindes  nobility 

The  gifts  of  Fate  and  Nature  doubled  were; 

That  in  her  spotlesse  Soule,  and  lovely  Face 
Thou  might'st  have  seene  each  Deity  and  grace. 

7- 

The  scornefiill  Boy  Adanit  viewing  her 

Would  f^enus  still  despise,  yet  her  desire, 

Each  who  hut  saw,  was  a  Competitor 

And  rivall,  scorcht  alike  with  Cupid's  fire. 

The  glorious  beamcs  of  her  (kyre  Eyes  did  move, 
And  light  beholders  on  their  way  to  Love. 


Amongst  her  many  Sutors  a  young  Knight 
Bove  others  wounded  with  the  Majesty 
Of  her  faire  presence,  presseth  most  in  sight} 
Yet  seldome  his  desire  can  sacis£e 

With  that  blest  obje^,  or  her  rarenesse  see ; 

For  Btautiis  guard,  is  watcbjull  ytalouue, 

9- 

Oft-times  that  he  might  see  his  Dtarett-fairt, 
Vpon  his  stately  Jennet  he  in  th'way 
Rides  by  her  house,  who  neigh's,  as  if  he  were 
Proud  to  be  view'd  by  bright  Ctnstanlia. 

But  his  poore  Master  though  to  see  her  move 
His  joy,  dares  show  no  looke  betraying  love. 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETDS 


Soonc  as  the  mome  peepM  from  her  rosie  bed 
And  all  Heavens  smaller  lights  expulscd  were: 
She  by  her  friends  and  ncere  acquaintance  led 
Like  other  Maids  oft  walk't  to  take  the  ayrc ; 
Aurora  blusht  at  such  a  sight  unknowne, 
To  see  those  cheekes  were  redder  then  her  c 


Th'obsequious  Lover  follows  still  her  traine 

And  where  they  goe,  that  way  his  journey  feines. 

Should  they  turne  backe,  he  would  turne  backe  againe ; 

For  where  his  Love,  his  businesse  there  renuines. 
Nor  is  it  strange  hcc  should  be  loath  to  part 
From  her,  since  shec  had  stolne  away  his  heart. 


PhiUtuj  hce  was  call'd  sprung  from  a  r^cc 

Of  Noble  ancestors ;   But  greedy  Time 

And  envious  Fate  had  labour'd  to  deface 

The  glory  which  in  his  great  Stocke  did  shine ; 
His  sute  but  small,  so  Fortune  did  decree, 
But  Lavi  being  blind,  hee  that  could  never  see, 

13- 
Yet  he  by  chance  had  hit  his  heart  aright, 
And  on  Censtantia's  eye  his  Arrow  whet, 
Had  blownc  the  Fire,  that  would  destroy  him  quite, 
Unlesse  his  flames  might  like  in  her  beget : 
But  yet  he  feares,  because  he  blinded  is, 
Thoi^h  he  have  shot  him  right,  her  heart  hee'l  misse, 

I*. 

Unto  Laves  Altar  therefore  hee  repayers, 

And  offers  there  a  pleasing  Sacrifice ; 

Intreating  CupiJ  with  inducing  Prayere, 

To  looke  upon,  and  case  his  Miseries: 

Where  having  wept,  recovering  breath  againe. 
Thus  to  immortall  Lave  he  did  complaine  : 

9 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

15- 

Oh  Cupid  I   ihtu  whsu  uncsntralUd  tway. 

Hath  Bfi-timts  ruPd  tht  Olympian  Thunderer^ 

JVhom  all  CteUstial!  Deities  obey, 

Wham  Men  and  Gods  both  reverence  and  fearei 
Oh  force  ConsUntias  heart  to  yeeld  to  Love, 
Of  all  thy  fVorkes  the  Master  piece  ^ twill  (irave. 

l6. 
And  let  me  not  Afiaion  vainely  spend. 
But  kindle  flames  in  her,  like  those  in  me; 
Tet  if  that  guift  my  Fortune  doth  transcend. 
Grant  that  her  charming  Beauty  I  may  see : 

And  view  those  Eyes  which  with  their  ravishing  light. 

Doe  onely  give  contentment  to  my  sight. 

T'hose  who  contemne  thy  sacred  Deity, 

And  mecke  thy  power,  let  them  thine  anger  know, 

Ifaulilesse  am,  nor  catCt  an  honour  be 

"to  wound  your  slave  alone,  and  spare  your  Foe. 

Here  teares  and  sights  spcake  his  imperfect  mone, 
In  language  farrc  more  dolorous  than  his  ownc. 


Home  he  retyr'd,  his  Soulc  he  brought  not  home, 
Just  like  a  Snip  whil'st  every  mounting  wave 
Tost  by  enraged  Boreas  up  and  downe, 
Threatens  the  Mariner  with  a  gaping  grave; 

Such  did  his  case,  such  did  his  state  appeare, 
Alike  distracted  betweene  hope  and  feare; 

19. 
Thinking  her  love  hec  never  shall  obtainc, 
One  morne  he  goes  to  th'Woods,  and  doth  complaine 
Of  his  unhappy  Fate,  but  all  in  vaine, 
And  thus  fond  Eccbo,  answers  him  againc. 
So  that  it  seemes  Aurora  wept  to  heare, 
For  th'verdant  grasse  was  dew'd  with  many  a  tcare. 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETUS 
THE  ECCHO. 


OH1   what  tatb  eaut'd  my  killing  misertitf 
Eyn,  Eccho  laid.  What  hath  dttattCd  my  tatt  ? 
Eaity  straight  the  rtionable  Nymph  replytSy 
That  ttathing  can  my  troubled  minde  afptase : 

Peace,  Eccho  answers.     What,  is  any  nigh  f 
Quoth  he :    at  which,  she  quickly  titters,  I, 
1. 
I^t  Eccho  answers?  tell  mee  then  thy  will: 
I  will,  shee  said.     What  shall  I  get  (queth  he) 
Bi  loving  still  f    to  which  she  answers,  ill. 
ihf   shell  I  void  ef  wisht  for  pleasure  dye  f 

It   shall  not  I  who  teyle  in  ceastlesse  patne. 
Some  pleasure  know?    no,  she  replyei  againe. 

3- 
False  and  inconstant  Nymph,  thou  lyest  {quoth  he) 
thou  lyest,  shee  said.  And  I  deserv'd  her  hate. 
If  I  should  thee  beleeve;   beleeve,  {satth  shee) 
For  why  thy  idle  words  are  of  no  weight. 

Weigh  it  {shee  replyes)  I  therefore  will  depart.  ' 
To  which,  resounding  Eccho  answers ;  part. 
20. 
Then  from  the  Woods  with  wounded  heart  he  goes, 
Filling  with  legions  of  fresh  thoughts  his  minde. 
He  quarrels  with  himselfc  bccnuse  his  woes 
Spring  from  himselfe,  yet  can  no  medicine  ftnde : 

Hee  weepes  to  quench  the  fires  that  burn  in  him, 
But  tearcs  doe  Eall  to  th'earth,  flames  arc  within. 
at. 
No  morning  banisht  darkenesse,  nor  blacke  night 
By  her  alternate  course  expuls'd  the  day, 
Which  in  Philetus  by  a  constant  rite 
At  Cupids  Altars  did  not  weepe  and  pray; 

And  ret  had  reaped  nought  for  all  his  paine 
But  Care  and  Sorrow,  that  was  all  his  gaine. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


But  now  at  last  the  pitying  God,  o'rccome 

By's  constant  votes  and  tearcs,  fixt  in  her  heart 

A  golden  shaft,  and  she  is  now  become 

A  suppliant  to  Love  that  with  like  Dart 

Hee'd  wound  Philetut,  and  doth  now  implore 
With  tearcs,  ayde  from  that  power  she  scorn'd  before. 

Little  she  thinkes  she  kept  Philitui  heart 

In  her  schortcht  brdst,  because  her  owne  she  gave 

To  him.     Since  either  sutlers  equal)  smart, 

And  alike  measure  in  their  torments  have; 

His  Soule,  his  griefe,  his  fires,  now  hers  are  growne: 
Her  heart,  her  minde,  her  love  is  his  alone. 

Whilst  thoughts  'gainst  thoughts  rise  up  in  mutinie, 
Shee  took  a  Lute  (being  farre  from  any  eares) 
And  tun'd  this  Song,  posing  that  harmony 
Which  Poets  wit  attributes  to  the  Sphears: 

Whose  ravishing  Notes,  if  when  her  Love  was  slaine 
She  had  sungj  from  Styx  t'had  cald  him  backe  againe. 


The  Song. 


To  tuhem  ihall  I  my  Sorrou/es  sfmv  ? 
Nat  to  Love,  far  hi  it  blindt : 
And  my  Philetus  dalh  mt  knnu 

The  inward  larrow  of  my  minde. 
And  all  the  imcelea  walk  which  an 
Now  round  about  me,  cannot  heare. 
2. 
For  if  thty  could,  tbty  sure  would  wttpe. 

And  with  my  griefci  relent : 
Vnltsse  their  willing  tearei  they  ketpe. 

Till  I  from  th'earth  am  sent. 
Then  I  beleeve  thty'l  all  deplore 
My  fate,  linee  I  thim  taught  before. 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETUS 

3- 
/  willingly  would  wetpe  my  tUre, 

If  the'jltud  would  land  thy  Ln/e, 
My  dtart  Philetus  on  tbi  ihoart 

Of  my  heart  i   but  thouldst  thou  prove 
Aftard  of  fames,  knew  the  fires  are 
But  btiufires  for  thy  comming  there. 

25. 
Then  teares  in  envic  of  her  speech  did  flow 
From  her  fain  eyes,  as  if  it  seemM  that  there 
Her  burning  flame  had  melted  hills  of  snow, 
And  so  dissolVd  them  into  many  a  tcare ; 
Which  Niha  like,  did  quickly  over-flow, 
And  caused  soone  new  serpent  griefes  to  grow. 

26. 
Heere  stay  my  Muse,  for  if  I  should  recite, 
Her  mournefull  Language,  I  should  make  you  weepc 
Like  her  a  floud,  and  so  not  sec  to  write, 
Such  lines  as  I  and  th'zge  requires  to  keepe 

Mee  from  sterne  death,  or  with  victorious  rime, 
Revenge  their  Masters  death,  and  conquer  time. 

27. 
By  this  time,  chance  and  his  owne  industry 
Had  hclpt  Philetus  forward,  that  he  grew 
Acquainted  with  her  Brother,  so  that  he, 
Might  by  this  meanes,  his  bright  Constantia  view: 
And  as  time  serv'd  shew  her  his  miscrie : 
And  this  was  the  iitst  A&.  in*s  Tragedie, 

28. 
Thus  to  himselfc  sooth'd  by  his  flattering  state, 
He  said ;    How  shall  I  ihanke  thee  for  this  game, 
O  Cupid,  or  reward  my  helping  Fate, 
fVlnch  sweetens  all  my  sorrtwes,  all  my  paine; 
What  Husiand-man  would  any  sweet  refuse, 
Tff  reape  at  last  such  fruit,  bis  labours  usef 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

29. 

But  waighing  straight  his  doubtfiill  state  aright, 
Seeing  his  griefes  linkt  like  an  endlesse  chaine 
To  following  woes,  he  could  dcspaire  delight, 
Quench  his  hot  flames,  and  empty  love  disdaine. 
But  Cupid  when  his  heart  was  set  on  fire, 
Had  burnt  his  wings,  and  could  not  then  retyre. 

30- 
The  wounded  youth,  and  kinde  Philocratis 
(So  was  her  Brother  call'd)  grew  soonc  so  dcare, 
So  true,  and  constant,  in  their  Amities, 
And  in  that  league  so  strii5tly  joyned  were; 

That  Death  it  selfe  could  not  their  friendship  sever. 
But  as  they  liv'd  in  love,  they  dyde  together. 

3'- 
If  one  be  melancholy,  th'other's  sad ; 
If  one  be  sicke,  the  other  he  is  ill, 
And  if  Phi/ttut  any  sorrow  had, 
Piiluraia  was  partner  in  it  still : 

Pylades  soulc  and  mad  OreiUi  was 

In  these,  if  wee  beleeve  Pythagtras. 

32- 
Oft  in  the  Woods  Philetui  walkes,  and  there 
Ejcclaimes  against  his  fate,  fate  too  unkind. 
With  speaking  tearcs  his  griefes  he  doth  declare. 
And  with  sad  sighes  teacheth  the  angrie  Jf^indy 
To  sigh,  and  thou^  it  nere  so  cruell  were, 
It  roar'd  to  heare  Phiietus  tell  his  care. 

33- 
The  Christall  Brookes  which  gently  runne  bctweene 
The  shadowing  Trees,  and  as  they  through  them  passe 
Water  the  Earth,  and  kcepc  the  Medowcs  greene, 
Giving  a  colour  to  the  verdant  Grasac: 
Hearing  Philttus  tell  his  wofiill  state. 
In  shew  of  griefe  runne  murmuring  at  his  Fate. 


CONSTANTIA  AND  PHILETUS 

34- 

PUUaui  answcrcs  him  againe  and  shcwcs 

In  her  best  language,  her  sad  Historic, 

And  in  a  mournfiill  swcetnesse  tels  her  woes. 

Denying  to  be  pos'd  in  miserie : 

CmttanUa  he,  she  Term,  Tereut  crycs, 

With  him  both  griefc,  and  gricfcs  expression  vies. 

35- 
Pbiloeratn  must  needes  his  sadnesse  Icnow, 
Willing  in  ills,  aswcll  as  joycs  to  share, 
Nor  will  on  them  the  name  of  friends  bestow. 
Who  in  spon,  not  in  sorrowes  partners  are. 

Who  leaves  to  guide  the  Ship  when  stormes  arise, 
Is  guilty  both  of  sinne,  and  cowardise. 

36. 

But  when  his  noble  Friend  perceiv'd  that  he 
Yeelded  to  tyrant  Passion  more  and  more, 
Desirous  to  partake  his  malady, 
He  watches  him  in  hope  to  cure  his  sore 

By  counsel!,  and  recall  the  poysonous  Dart, 

When  it  alas  was  fixed  in  his  heart. 

37- 
When  in  the  Woods,  places  best  fit  for  care, 
Hee  to  himselfc  did  his  past  griefes  recite. 
The  'obsequious  friend  straight  followes  him,  and  there 
Doth  hide  himselfc  from  sad  PhiUtus  sight. 

Who  thus  exclaimes;  for  a  swolne  heart  would  breaker 
If  it  for  vent  of  sorrow  might  not  speake. 

38. 

OhJ   I  am  lest,  tut  in  this  Desart  fVoed, 

But  in  Uves  patbUsst  Labyrinth,  then  I 

My  health,  each  joy  and  pleasure  counted  goad 

Have  lost,  and  which  it  mare,  my  liberty. 
And  now  am  forc't  to  let  him  sacrifice 
My  heart,  for  rash  belaving  of  my  eyes. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 
39- 

Long  have  I  stayed,  but  yet  have  ne  riliife^ 
Long  have  I  kvdy  yet  have  nt  favour  thwne, 
Because  she  kncwes  not  of  my  ktiltng  griefiy 
And  I  have  feard,  to  make  my  sorrowes  knotvne. 
For  why  alas,  if  shei  should  once  but  dart 
At  me  disdoine,  'twould  kill  my  suhjiSf  heart. 

40. 

But  how  should  shee,  ere  I  Impart  my  Love, 

Reward  my  ardent  ^ame  with  Hie  desire? 

But  when  I  speakt,  if  shee  should  angry  prove. 

Laugh  at  my  flowing  teares,  aiui  scorne  my  fre? 
ffhy,  he  who  hath  all  sorrowes  borne  before, 
Needeth  net  feari  to  be  opprest  with  more. 

41. 
Philocrates  no  longer  can  forbeare, 
But  running  to  his  lov'd  Friend ;    Oh  (said  he) 
My  deare  Philetus  be  thy  selfi,  and  sweare 
7e  rule  that  Passion  which  now  masters  Thety 
And  all  thy  faculties  i    but  if't  may  not  be. 
Give  to  thy  Love  but  eyes  that  it  may  see, 

42. 
Amazement  strikes  him  dumbe,  what  shall  he  doe? 
Should  he  revcale  his  Love,  he  fearcs  twould  prove, 
A  hindrance  j   which  should  he  deny  to  show, 
It  might  perhaps  his  deare  friends  anger  move : 
These  doubts  Itlce  Scyl/a  and  Charihdis  stand. 
Whilst  Cupid  a  blind  Pilot  doth  command. 

43- 

At  last  resolv'd ;   how  shall  I  seeke,  said  hee, 

To  excuse  my  selfe,  dearest  Philocrates  { 

That  I  from  thee  have  hid  this  secrecie  i 

Yet  censure  not,  give  me  first  leave  to  case 

My  case  with  words,  my  griefe  you  should  have  known 
Ere  this,  if  that  my  heart  had  beene  my  owne. 


«■- 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETUS 


/  am  all  Lovt^  my  heart  u/ai  burnt  with  fire 
From  two  bright  Suimet  v/hicb  dot  alt  light  diiclose } 
Fint  iindUng  in  my  breast  the  flame  desire^ 
But  Hie  the  rare  Arabian  Arrf,  there  rose 

From  my  hearts  ashes  never  quenthrd  Love^ 
ff^hicb  MW  this  torment  in  my  soule  doth  move. 

45- 

Oh}  Jet  not  then  my  Pauton  cause  your  hate. 

Nor  let  my  choise  offend  youy  or  detayne 

Your  a/tdent  Friendship  f    'tis  alas  too  late 

7*  call  an  firme  affelXion  backe  againt : 

No  Phpicke  caH  recure  my  vjtakrCd  state^ 
The  vnund  is  growne  too  great,  too  desperate. 

♦6. 

But  Counsell  sayd  his  Friend,  a  remedy 
Which  never  ^yles  the  Patient,  may  at  least 
If  not  quite  heale  your  mindes  infirmity, 
Asswage  your  torment,  and  procure  some  rest. 
But  there  is  no  Physilian  can  apply 
A  medicine^  ere  he  know  tht  Malady. 

47- 

Then  hearc  me,  said  Philetus ;   but  why  f   Stay, 

I  will  not  toyle  thee  with  my  history, 

For  to  remember  Sorrowes  past  away. 

Is  to  renew  an  old  Calamity. 

Hee  who  aequainteth  others  with  his  mone, 
Addes  to  his  friends  grtefi,  but  not  cures  his  owne, 

+8. 
But  said  Philecrates,  'tis  best  in  woe, 
To  have  a  &ithfull  partner  of  their  care ; 
That  burthen  may  be  undergone  by  two, 
Which  is  perhaps  too  great  for  one  to  beare. 

I  should  mistrust  your  love  to  hide  from  me 
Your  thoughts,  and  taxe  you  of  Inconstancy. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

49- 
What  shall  he  doe?   or  with  what  language  frame 
Excuse?     He  must  resolve  not  to  deny, 
But  open  his  close  thoughts,  and  inward  flatne, 
With  that,  as  prologue  to  his  Tragedy. 

Hee  sigh'd,  as  if  they'd  code  his  torments  ire, 
When  they  alas,  did  blow  the  raging  fire. 

SO. 
When  yeeres  first  styl'd  me  Twenty,  I  began 
To  sport  with  catching  snares  that  love  had  set, 
Like  birds  that  flutter  'bout  the  gyn,  till  tane, 
Or  the  poorc  Fly  caught  in  Ar^hnts  net : 

Even  so  I  sported  with  her  Beauties  light. 
Till  I  at  last  grew  blind  with  too  much  sight. 


First  It  came  stealing  on  me,  whil'st  I  thought, 

Twas  easie  to  expulse  it,  but  as  lire, 

Though  but  a  sparke,  soone  into  flames  is  brought, 

So  mine  grew  great,  and  quickly  mounted  higher ; 

Which  so  have  scorcht  my  love-stnicke  soule,  that  I 
Still  live  in  torment,  though  each  minute  dye. 

52- 

Who  is  it,  said  Philocrates,  can  move 

With  charming  eyes  such  deep  affection  ? 

I  may  perhaps  assist  you  in  your  love, 

Two  can  cffeft  more  than  your  selfe  alone. 
My  counsell  this  thy  error  may  reclaime, 
Or  my  salt  teares  quench  thy  annoying  flame. 

S3- 
Nay  said  Philetui,  oft  my  eyes  doe  flow 
Like  Ni/us,  when  it  scornes  th 'opposed  shore: 
Yet  all  the  watery  plenty  I  bestow. 
Is  to  my  flame  an  oyle,  which  feedes  it  more. 
So  fame  reports  of  the  Dodanean  spring. 
That  lights  a  torch  the  which  is  put  therein. 


CONSTANTIA   AND   PHILETUS 

54. 

But  being  you  desire  to  know  her,  she 
Is  call'd  (with  that  his  eves  let  fall  a  shower 
As  if  they  hdnc  would  drowne  the  memory 
Of  his  life  keepers  name,)  Constantsa ;   more 

Griefe  would  not  let  him  utter;   Ttares  the  best 
Expressers  of  true  sorrow^  spoke  the  rest. 

To  which  his  noble  friend  did  thus  reply: 

And  was  this  all  ?    What  ere  your  griefe  would  ease 

Though  a  fiure  greater  taske,  beleev't  for  thee 

It  should  be  soone  done  by  Philocrates ; 

Thinke  all  you  M^ish  performed,  but  see,  the  day 
Tyr'd  with  its  heate  is  hasting  now  away. 

56. 

Home  from  the  silent  Woods,  night  bids  them  goe. 

But  sad  PhiUtus  can  no  comfort  finde, 

What  in  the  day  he  feares  of  future  woe. 

At  night  in  dreames,  like  truth,  affrights  his  mind. 

Why  do*st  thou  vex  him.  Love  ?     Hadst  eyes  (I  say) 
Thou  wouldst  thy  selfe  have  lov*d  Constantia, 

57- 

Philocrates  pittying  his  dolefuU  mone. 
And  wounded  with  the  Sorrowes  of  his  friend. 
Brings  him  to  fayre  Constantia ;   where  alone 
Hee  might  impart  his  love,  and  eyther  end 

His  fruitlesse  hopes,  cropt  by  her  coy  disdaine. 
Or  by  her  liking^  his  wish*t  Joyes  attaine, 

58. 

Fairest  (quoth  he)  whom  the  bright  Heavens  doe  cover^ 
Doe  not  these  teareSj  these  speaking  teareSy  despise^ 
And  dolorous  sighesy  of  a  submissive  Lover ^ 
Thus  strucke  to  tV earth  by  your  all  dazeling  Eyes. 
And  doe  not  you  contemne  that  ardent  flame^ 
Which  from  your  selfe^  Your  owne  faire  Beauty  came. 

B  2  19 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

59- 
Trust  me,  I  long  have  hid  my  hve,  but  now 
Jm  ftrc't  to  thow't,  such  is  my  inoard  smart. 
And  you  alone  {stutti  fairt)  the  mtants  de  knnu 
To  heah  the  iveund  of  my  consuming  heart. 

Then  since  it  onely  in  your  power  doth  lie 
To  kill,  or  save.  Oh  helfiel   or  else  I  dye. 

60. 

His  gently  cnicll  Love,  did  thus  reply ; 

I  fir  your  fiaine  am  grieved,  and  would  dat 

iVithout  impeacbme[n]t  to  my  Chastity 

And  honour,  any  thing  might  pleasure  you. 
But  if  beyond  those  limits  you  demand, 
I  must  not  answer,  {Sir)  nor  understand, 

61. 
Beleeve  me  vertuous  maiden,  my  desire 
Is  chast  and  pious,  as  thy  Virgin  thought, 
No  flash  of  lust,  'tis  no  dishonest  fire 
Which  goes  as  soone  as  it  was  quickly  brought : 

But  as  thy  beauty  pure,  which  let  not  bee 

Eclipsed  by  disdamc,  and  cruelty. 

62. 
Oh  !   how  shall  I  reply  (quoth  shce)  thou'aat  won 
My  soule,  and  therefore  take  thy  viflory: 
Thy  eyes  and  spcaches  have  my  heart  o'recome, 
And  if  I  should  deny  thee  love,  then  I 

Should  bee  a  Tyrant  to  my  selfc;   that  fire 
Which  is  kept  close,  burnes  with  the  greatest  ire. 

63. 

Yet  doe  not  count  my  yeelding,  lightnesse  in  mee, 
Impute  it  rather  to  my  ardent  love. 
Thy  pleasing  carriage  long  agoe  did  win  me, 
And  pleading  beauty  did  my  liking  move. 

Thy  eyes  which  draw  like  loadstones  with  their  might 
The  hardest  hearts,  won  mine  to  leave  me  quite. 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETUS 

64. 

Oh  !  I  am  rapt  above  the  reach,  said  hee, 

Of  thought,  my  soule  already  feeles  the  blisse 

Of  heaven,  when  (sweet)  my  thoughts  once  tax  but  thee 

With  any  crime,  may  I  lose  all  happinesse 

Is  wisht  for :    both  your  favour  here,  and  dead. 
May  the  just  Gods  [pour]  vengeance  on  my  bead. 

65. 

Whilst  he  was  speaking  this  (behold  their  finte) 

Constantia^s  father  entred  in  the  roome. 

When  glad  Philetus  ignorant  of  his  state. 

Kisses  her  cheekes,  more  red  then  setting  Sun, 

Or  else,  the  morne,  blushing  through  clouds  of  water, 
To  see  ascending  Sol  congratulate  her. 

66. 

Just  as  the  guilty  prisoner  fearefiiU  stands 
Reading  his  fatall  Theta  in  the  browes 
Of  him,  who  both  his  life  and  death  commands. 
Ere  from  his  mouth  he  the  sad  sentence  knowes. 
Such  was  his  state  to  see  her  father  come. 
Nor  wisht  for,  nor  expe£ted  to  the  roome. 

67. 

The  inrag'd  old  man  bids  him  no  more  to  dare 
Such  bold  intrudence  in  that  house,  nor  be 
At  any  time  with  his  lov'd  daughter  there 
Till  he  had  given  him  such  authority. 

But  to  depart,  since  she  her  love  did  shew  him 
Was  living  death,  with  lingring  torments  to  him. 

68. 

This  being  knowne  to  kind  PhilocrateSy 
He  cheares  his  friend,  bidding  him  banish  feare. 
And  by  some  letter  his  griev  d  minde  appease. 
And  shew  her  that  which  to  her  friendly  eare, 

Tyme  gave  no  leave  to  tell,  and  thus  his  quill 
Declares  to  her,  the  absent  lovers  will. 

21 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

THE    LETTER. 
PHILETUS  TO  CONSTANTIA. 

I    Trust  {dtart  Sauli)  my  ahunct  cattnot  mavt 
Tou  te  fergtt^  ar  doubt  my  ardent  Icvt; 
Far  wire  there  any  meanes  to  see  you,  I 
Would  runne  through  Death,  and  all  the  miserit 
Fate  could  infliil,  that  so  the  world  might  say. 
In  Life  and  Death  I  iov'd  Constantia. 
Then  let  not  (dearest  Szueet)  our  absence  sever 
Our  loves,  let  them  join'd  closely  still  together 
Give  warmth  to  one  another,  till  there  rise 
From  all  our  labours,  and  our  industries 
The  long  expeSled  fruits  ;    have  patience  {Switt) 
There's  no  man  whom  the  Summer  pleasures  greet 
Before  he  fast  the  M^inler,  none  can  say. 
Ere  night  was  gone,  he  saw  the  rising  Day. 

So  when  we  once  have  wasted  Sorrcwei  night. 
The  sunne  of  Comfort  then  shall  give  us  light. 

^  Philitus. 

This  when  Constantia  read,  shee  thought  her  state 
Most  happy  by  Philetus  Constancie, 
And  perfeCT  Love :   she  thankes  her  flattering  Fate, 
Kisses  the  paper,  till  with  kissing  she 

The  welcome  Charafters  doth  dull  and  sUyne, 
Then  thus  with  inke  and  teares  writes  backe  ogaine. 

CONSTANTIA   TO   PHILETUS. 

YOur  absence  (Sir)  though  it  be  long,  yet  I 
Neither  forget,  nor  doubt  your  Constancie. 
Nor  need  you  feare,  that  I  should  yeeld  unto 
Another,  what  to  your  true  Love  is  due. 
My  heart  it  yours,  it  is  not  in  my  claime. 
Nor  have  I  power  to  giv't  away  againe. 
Thereat  nought  but  death  can  part  our  soules,  no  time 
Or  angry  Friends,  shall  mate  my  Love  decline : 
But  far  the  harvest  of  our  hopes  I'le  stay, 
t/[«]/«K  Death  cut  it,  ere't  be  ripe,  away. 

Constantia. 


CONSTANTIA   AND   PHILETUS 

70. 

Oh !    how  this  Letter  did  exalt  his  pride ! 
More  proud  was  he  of  this,  then  Phaeton ; 
When  Phoebus  flaming  Chariot  he  did  guide, 
Before  he  knew  the  danger  was  to  come. 

Or  else  then  Jasony  when  from  Colchos  hee 

Returned,  with  the  Fleeces  vidlorjr. 

But  ere  the  Autumne  which  faire  Ceres  crown'd, 
Had  paid  the  sweating  Plow-mans  greediest  prayer; 
And  by  the  Fall  disrobM  the  gawdy  ground 
Of  all  her  Summer  ornaments,  they  were 

By  kind  Philocrates  together  brought. 

Where  they  this  means  t'enjoy  their  freedome  wrought, 

72. 

Sweet  Mistresse,  said  PhiletuSy  since  the  time 
Propitious  to  our  votes,  now  gives  us  leave 
To  enjoy  our  loves,  let  us  not  deare  resigne 
His  long*d  for  favour,  nor  our  selves  bereave 

Of  what  we  wisht  for,  opportunitie ; 

That  may  too  soon  the  wings  of  Love  out-flie. 

73- 

For  when  your  Father,  as  his  custome  is, 
For  pleasure,  doth  pursue  the  timerous  Hare ; 
If  you*l  resort  but  thither.  Fie  not  misse 
To  be  in  those  Woods  ready  for  you,  where 
We  may  depart  in  safety,  and  no  more 
With  Dreames  of  pleasure  onely,  heale  our  sore. 

74. 

This  both  the  Lovers  soon  agreed  upon. 
But  ere  they  parted,  he  desires  that  she 
Would  blesse  his  greedy  hearing,  with  a  Song 
From  her  harmonious  voyce,  she  doth  agree 
To  his  request,  and  doth  this  Ditty  sing. 
Whose  ravishing  Notes  new  fires  to  s  old  doe  bring. 

23 


{ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


The  Song. 


Time  flyt  with  greater  speed  away. 
Aide  feathers  to  thy  wings. 
Till  thy  hast  in  flying  brings 
That  wisht  fir,  and  expeited  Day. 


Camfirts  sunne,  we  then  shall  see. 
Though  at  first  it  darkned  bee, 
IVith  dangers,  yet  those  Ckudi  being  gone. 
Our  Day  will  put  his  lustre  on, 

3- 

Then  though  Deaths  sad  night  doe  come. 
And  we  in  silence  sleepe, 
'Lasting  Day  agen  will  greet 

Our  ravisht  Soules,  and  then  there's  none 


Can  part  us  mare,  no  Death,  nor  Friends, 
Being  dead,  their  power  o're  us  ends. 
Thus  there's  nothing  can  dissever. 
Hearts  which  Love  hath  Joyn'd  together. 

75. 

Feare  of  being  seen,  Philetui  homewsird  drove, 

But  ere  they  part  ^e  willingly  doth  give 

As  faithfull  pledges  of  her  constant  love 

Many  a  Icisse,  and  then  each  other  leave 

In  griefc,  though  rapt  with  joy  that  they  have  found 
A  way  to  heale  the  torment  of  their  wound. 


CONSTANTIA   AND   PHILETUS 

76. 

But  ere  the  Sun  through  many  dayes  had  run, 
Constantia*s  charming  beauty  had  oVecome 
Guiscardo^s  heart,  and's  scorn'd  a£Fe£tion  won, 
Her  eyes,  they  conquered  all  they  shone  upon, 
Shot  through  his  eyes  such  hot  desire, 
As  nothing  but  her  love  could  quench  the  fire. 

77- 

In  roofes  which  Gold  and  Parian  stone  adorn. 
Proud  as  their  Landlords  minde,  he  did  abound. 
In  fields  so  fertile  for  their  yeerly  corn©, 
As  might  contend  with  scorcht  Ca/abria*s  ground ; 
But  in  his  soule  where  should  be  the  best  store 
Of  surest  riches,  he  was  base  and  poore. 

78. 

Him  was  Comtantia  urgM  continually 
By  her  friends  to  love,  sometimes  they  did  intreat 
With  gentle  speeches,  and  mild  courtesie. 
Which  when  they  see  despis'd  by  her,  they  threat. 
But  love  too  deep  was  seated  in  her  heart. 
To  be  worn  out  with  thought  of  any  smart. 

79- 

Her  father  shortly  went  unto  the  Wood 
To  hunt,  his  friend  Guiscardo  being  there. 
With  others  who  by  friendship  and  by  blood 
Unto  Constantia^s  aged  Father  were 

AUyed  neere,  there  likewise  were  with  these. 
His  beautious  Daughter,  and  Philocrates, 

80. 

Being  entred  in  the  pathlesse  woods,  whilst  they 
Pursue  their  game,  Philetus  which  was  late 
Hid  in  a  thicket,  carries  straight  away 
His  Love,  and  hastens  his  owne  hastie  fate. 

Which  came  too  soone  upon  him,  and  his  Sunne 

Eclipsed  was,  before  it  fully  shone. 

25 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

8i. 

For  when  Cmitantia'i  missed,  in  a  maze. 

Each  takes  a  several!  course,  and  by  curst  fate 

Guiuarda  runs,  with  a  love-carried  pace 

Towards  them,  who  httle  knew  their  sorrowfull  state : 
So  hee  like  bold  learut  soaring  hye 
To  Honours,  fell  to  th'depth  of  misery. 

82. 
For  when  Guiicarde  sees  his  Rivall  there, 
Swelling  with  envious  rage,  hee  comes  behind 
Pbi/etut,  who  such  fortune  did  not  feare, 
And  with  his  flaming  sword  a  way  doth  find 

To  his  heart,  who  ere  that  death  possest  him  quite, 
In  these  few  words  gaspt  out  his  flying  sprite. 

83- 

O  ttt  Constantia,  mj  ihirt  race  is  runne. 
See  henj  my  bload  the  thirsty  ground  dath  dye. 
But  live  thou  happier  then  thy  love  hath  dint^ 
And  when  Vm  dead,  thinke  lanutime  upon  me. 

More  my  short  time  permits  me  not  to  tell, 
For  now  death  ceizeth  me,  ah  my  dean  farewell, 

84. 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoke  these  words,  life  fled 
From's  wounded  body,  whil'st  Constantia  shee 
Kisses  his  cheekes  which  lose  their  lively  red, 
And  become  pale,  and  wan,  and  now  each  eye 

Which  was  so  bright,  is  like,  when  life  was  done 

A  fallen  slarre,  or  an  eeSfsed  Sunne. 

8s. 

Thither  Pbilocrates  by's  fate  being  drove 

To  accompany  Pb'tUtut  Tragedy, 

Seeing  his  friend  was  dead,  and's  sorrowfull  love 

Sate  weeping  o'rc  his  bleeding  body,  I 

Will  now  revenge  thy  death  (best  friend)  said  he, 
Or  in  thy  murtner  beare  thee  company. 


CONSTANTIA  AND   PHILETUS 

86. 

I  am  by  Jwi  sent  to  revenge  this  fate, 
Nay,  stay  Gmscardo^  thinke  not  heaven  in  jest, 
'Tis  vaine  to  hope  flight  can  secure  thy  state. 
Then  thrusting's  sword  into  the  Villaines  brest : 
Here,  said  Phikcrates^  thy  life  I  send 
A  sacrifice,  t'appease  my  slaughter'd  Ariend. 

87. 

But  he  falls:    here  take  a  reward  said  he 

For  this  thy  victory,  with  that  he  flung 

His  killing  Rapier  at  his  enemy, 

Which  hit  his  head,  and  in  his  brain-pan  hung. 
With  that  he  falls,  but  lifting  up  his  eyes. 
Farewell  Constantiay  that  word  said,  he  dyes. 

88. 

What  shall  she  doe  ?  she  to  her  brother  runnes 
And's  cold,  and  livelesse  body  doth  imbrace. 
She  calls  to  him,  he  cannot  heare  her  moanes: 
And  with  her  kisses  warmes  his  clammy  face. 
My  dean  Philocrates,  shee  weeping  cryeSy 
Speake  to  thy  Sister :   but  no  voyce  replyes. 

89. 

Then  running  to  her  Love,  with  many  a  teare. 
Thus  her  minds  fervent  passion  she  express*t, 
O  stay  (blest  Soule)  stay  but  a  little  here. 
And  we  will  both  hast  to  a  lasting  rest. 

Then  to  EUsiums  Mansions  both  together 
Wee*l  journey,  and  be  marryed  there  for  ever. 

90. 

But  when  she  saw  they  both  were  dead,  quoth  she. 

Oh  my  PhiletuSy  for  thy  sake  will  I 

Make  up  a  full  and  perfcdl  Tragedy, 

Since  *twas  for  me  (Deare  Love)  that  thou  didst  dye; 
lie  follow  thee,  and  not  thy  losse  deplore. 
These  eyes  that  saw  thee  kill'd,  shall  see  no  more. 

27 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

91. 

It  shall  not  sure  be  said  that  thou  didst  dye, 
And  thjr  Carutantia  live  since  thou  wast  sfaine: 
No,  no,  dears  Soule,  I  will  not  stay  from  thee. 
But  constant  be  in  a£t,  as  well  as  Name. 

Then  piercing  her  sad  brest,  /  cemt,  she  cryes, 
And  Death  for  ever  chCd  her  weeping  tyei. 


92. 
Her  Soule  being  fled  to  its  eternall  rest, 
Her  Father  comes,  who  seeing  this,  he  falls 
To  th'carth,  with  griefe  too  great  to  be  cxprcst : 
Whose  dolefuU  words  my  tyred  Muse  me  calls 

T'  o'rMiasse,  which  I  most  gladly  doe,  for  feare 
That  I  should  toyle  too  much,  the  Readers  eare. 


THE 

TRAGICALL 

HISTORY   OF 
PIRAMUS 

AND 

THISBE. 


The  third  Edition. 


Enlarged  by  the  Author. 


-Jit  surculus  Arbor, 


London. 

Printed  by  E.  P.  for  Henry  Sbilb, 

and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop  at  the  signe  of 

[the]  Tygers-head  in  Fleet-street  between 

the  Bridge  and  the  Conduit. 

1637. 


To  the  Right  Worshipful!, 

my  very  loving  Master,  Master 

Lambert  OsbotstoHy  chiefe  School- 
master of  JVestminster- 
Schoole. 

Sir, 

MT  childish  Muse  is  in  her  Springy  and  yet 
Can  onely  shew  some  budding  of  her  Wit. 
One  frowne  upon  her  JVorke  {learned  Sir)  from  yoUy 
Like  some  unkinder  storme  shot  from  your  hroWy 
Would  turn  her  Spring  to  withering  Autumn's  time^ 
And  make  her  Blossomes  perishy  ere  their  Prime, 
But  if  you  smile  J  if  in  your  gracious  Eye 
Shee  an  auspicious  Alpha  can  descrie: 

How  soone  will  they  grow  Fruit  F     How  will  they  flourish  ^ 
That  had  such  beames  their  infancie  to  nourish? 
Which  being  sprung  to  ripen esscy  expert  then 
The  besty  and  first  fruits  of  her  gratefull  Pen, 

Your  most  dutifull  Scholler, 

Abra.  Cowlby. 


30 


THE 

TRAGICALL 

HISTORIE 

OF 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe. 


I. 

WHcre  Baby  Ions  high  Walls  erefted  were 
By  mighty  Ninus  wife ;    two  houses  joyn'd. 
One  Thisbe  liv'd  in,  Pyramus  the  faire 
In  th'other :   Earth  nere  boasted  such  a  paire. 
The  very  sencelesse  walls  themselves  combin'd, 
And  grew  in  one;  just  like  their  Masters  mind. 

2. 

Thisbe  all  other  women  did  excell, 
The  Queene  of  Love^  lesse  lovely  was  than  she : 
And  Pyramus  more  sweet  than  tongue  can  tell, 
Nature  grew  proud  in  framing  them  so  well. 
But  Fenus  envying  they  so  faire  should  be, 
Bids  her  sonne  Cupid  shew  his  crueltie. 

3- 

The  all-subduing  God  his  Bow  doth  bend, 
And  doth  prepare  his  most  remorselesse  Dart, 
Which  he  imseene  unto  their  hearts  did  send. 
And  so  was  Love  the  cause  of  Beauties  end. 

But  could  he  see,  he  had  not  wrought  their  smart : 
For  pittie  sure  would  have  o'recome  his  heart. 

31 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Like  as  a  Bird  which  in  a  Net  is  tane, 
By  strugling  more  entangles  in  the  ginne ; 
So  they  who  in  Loves  Labyrinth  remaine, 
With  striving  never  can  a  frecdome  gainc. 

The  way  to  enter's  broad ;   but  being  in, 

No  art,  no  labour,  can  an  ixit  win. 

S- 

These  Lovers,  though  their  Parents  did  reprove 
Their  fires,  and  watch'd  their  deeds  with  jcalousie, 
Though  in  these  stormes  no  comfort  could  remove 
The  various  doubts,  and  feares  that  coole  hot  love : 
Though  he  nor  hers,  nor  she  his  ^e  could  see, 
Yet  this  did  not  abolish  Loves  Decree. 


For  age  had  crack'd  the  wall  which  did  them  part, 
This  the  unanimate  couple  soone  did  spie, 
And  here  their  inward  sorrowes  did  impart. 
Unlading  the  sad  burthen  of  their  heart. 

Though  Love  be  blinde,  this  shewes  he  can  descry 

A  way  to  lessen  his  owne  misery. 

7- 
Oft  to  the  friendly  Grannie  they  resort. 
And  feedc  themselves  with  the  ccelestiall  ayre 
Of  odoriferous  breath  ;    no  other  sport 
They  could  enjoy,  yet  thinke  the  time  but  short: 
And  wish  that  it  againe  renewed  were, 
To  sucke  each  others  breath  lot  ever  there. 


Sometimes  they  did  exclaime  against  their  fate. 

And  sometimes  they  accus'd  imperiall  Jove; 

Sometimes  repent  their  flames :   but  all  too  late ; 

The  Arrow  could  not  be  recall'd :    their  state 
Ordained  was  by  jfupiter  above. 
And  Cupid  had  appointed  they  should  love. 


32 


PYRAMUS   AND   THISBE 

9- 

They  curst  the  wall  which  did  their  kisses  part, 
And  to  the  stones  their  dolorous  words  they  sent, 
As  if  they  saw  the  sorrow  of  their  heart, 
And  by  their  teares  could  understand  their  smart : 
But  it  was  hard,  and  knew  not  what  they  meant, 
Nor  with  their  sighs  (alas)  would  it  relent. 

10. 

This  in  cfieft  they  said ;    Cursed  wally  O  why 

tVilt  thou  our  bodus  sever^  whose  true  love 

Breakes  thorow  all  thy  flintie  cruiltie  : 

For  both  our  soules  so  closely  joyned  lye^ 

TTfat  nought  hut  angry  Death  can  them  removey 
And  though  he  part  them^  yet  theyW  meet  above. 

Abortive  teares  from  their  faire  eyes  straight  flow'd, 
And  damm'd  the  lovely  splendour  of  their  [sijght. 
Which  seem'd  like  Titan^  whilst  some  watry  Cloud 
OVespreads  his  face,  and  his  bright  beames  doth  shrowd. 
Till  Vesper  chas'd  away  the  conquered  light. 
And  forceth  them  (though  loth)  to  bid  Good-night. 

12. 

But  ere  Aurora^  Usher  to  the  Day, 
Began  with  welcome  lustre  to  appeare. 
The  Lovers  rise,  and  at  that  crannie  they 
Thus  to  each  other,  their  thoughts  open  lay. 
With  many  a  Sigh,  many  a  speaking  Teare, 
Whose  griefe  the  pitying  Morning  blusht  to  heare. 

Deare  Love  (quoth  Pyramus)  how  long  shall  wee 
Like  fairest  Flowers^  not  gathered  in  their  prime^ 
Waste  precious  youthj  and  let  advantage  flee^ 
Till  wee  bewaile  {at  last)  our  crueltie 

Upon  our  selves^  for  Beautie  though  it  shine 
Like  dayy  will  quickly  finde  an  Evening  time. 

C.  u.  C  33 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Tbtrtfert  (sweet  Thisbe)  iet  ui  meet  this  night 

At  Ninus  Tembey  without  the  Gtii  wall. 

Under  the  Mulberry-Tree,  with  Berries  white 

Abcunding,  there  t'enjoy  our  wisht  delight. 

For  mounting  Love  stapt  in  his  course,  doth  fillip 
And  hng'd  for,  yet  unSasted  "Joy,  kills  all, 

15- 
What  though  our  cruell  parents  angry  bee  ? 
What  though  our  friends  (alas)  are  too  unltinde? 
Time  now  propitious,  may  anon  deny, 
And  soone  hold  backe,  fit  opportunity. 

Who  lets  slip  Fortune,  her  shell  never  finde. 

Occasion  once  pass'd  by,  is  balde  behinde. 

i6. 
Shee  soone  agreed  to  that  which  hee  requir'd, 
For  little  fVooing  needs,  where  both  consent; 
What  hee  so  long  had  pleaded,  shee  desir'd : 
Which  f^enus  seeing,  with  blinde  Chance  conspir'd, 
And  many  a  charming  accent  to  her  sent, 
That  shee  (at  last)  would  frustrate  their  intent. 

Thus  Beautie  is  by  Beauties  meanes  undone, 
Striving  to  close  these  eyes  that  make  her  bright; 
Just  like  the  Moone,  which  scekes  t'eclipse  the  Sun, 
Whence  all  her  splendour,  all  her  beames  doc  come : 
So  shee,  who  fetcheth  lustre  from  their  sight, 
Doth  purpose  to  destroy  their  glorious  light. 

1 8. 

Unto  the  Mulberrf'tree,  sweet  Thisbe  came; 

Where  having  rested  long,  at  last  shee  gan 

Against  her  Pyramut  for  to  exclaime, 

Whil'st  various  thoughts  turmoile  her  troubled  braine: 
And  imitating  thus  the  Silver  Swan, 
A  little  while  before  her  Death  ihtt  sang. 


PYRAMUS   AND  THISBE 


The  Song. 
I. 

COmi  Laviy  why  stayest  thtm  ?     The  night 
tVill  vanish  ere  wee  taste  delight : 
The  Moom  obscures  her  selfe  from  sight^ 
Thou  ahsenty  whose  eyes  give  her  light. 

2. 

Come^ickfyy  Deare^  he  briefe  as  Time^ 
Or  weg  by  Mome  shall  be  o^retane^ 
Loves  yoy*s  thine  owne  as  well  as  mine^ 
Spend  not  therefore  the  time  in  vaine. 

19. 

Here  doubtfiill  thoughts  broke  off  her  pleasant  Song^ 
Against  her  love  for  staying  shee  gan  crie ; 
Her  Pyramus  shee  thought  did  tarry  long, 
And  that  his  absence  did  her  too  much  wrong. 
Then  betwixt  longing  hope,  and  jealousie, 
Shee  feares,  yet*s  loth,  to  tax  his  loyaltie. 

20. 

Sometimes  shee  thinkes,  that  hee  hath  her  forsaken ; 

Sometimes,  that  danger  hath  befallen  to  him ; 

Shee  feares  that  hee  another  love  hath  taken : 

Which  being  but  imaginM,  soone  doth  waken 

Numberlesse  thoughts,  which  on  her  heart  doe  fling 
Feares,  that  her  mture  fate  too  truely  sing. 

21. 

Whil'st  shee  thus  musing  sate,  ranne  from  the  Wood 
An  angry  Lyon,  to  the  cristall  Springs 
Neere  to  that  place ;   who  comming  from  his  food, 
His  chaps  were  all  besmear'd  with  crimson  bloud : 
Swifter  then  thought,  sweet  Thisbe  straight  begins 
To  flye  from  him,  feare  gave  her  Svirallowes  wings. 

C2  35 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


As  shee  avoids  the  Lion,  her  desire 
Bids  her  to  stay,  lest  Pyramui  should  come, 
And  be  devour  d  by  the  sterne  Lions  ire, 
So  shee  for  ever  burne  in  unquencht  fire ; 
But  fcare  expells  all  reasons,  shee  doth  runne 
Into  a  darksome  Cave,  ne'r  seene  by  Sunne. 

23- 

With  haste  shcc  let  her  looser  Mantle  fall : 
Which  when  th'enraged  Lion  did  espie, 
With  bloudv  teeth,  he  tore't  in  pieces  small, 
Whil'st  Thisbe  ran  and  lookt  not  baclce  at  all. 

For  could  the  sencelessc  beast  her  lace  descrie, 

It  had  not  done  her  such  an  injurie. 

The  night  halfe  wasted,  Pyramus  did  come ; 
Who  seeing  printed  in  the  subtill  sand 
The  Lions  paw,  and  by  the  fountaine  some 
Of  Thiibts  garment,  sorrow  strucltc  him  dumbe  : 
Just  like  a  Marble  Statue  did  he  stand, 
Cut  by  some  skilfull  Gravers  cunning  hand. 

25. 
Recovering  breath,  'gainst  Fate  he  gan  t'exclaime, 
Washing  with  teares  the  torne  and  bloudv  weed : 
I  may,  said  he,  my  selfe  for  her  death  blame ; 
Therefore  my  bloud  shall  wash  away  that  shune: 
SiiKt  thee  IS  dead,  whtse  Beautie  dath  txutd 
Ail  that  fraiU  man  can  lither  heart  or  reade. 

26. 
This  speaking,  hee  his  sharpe  Sword  drew,  and  said ; 
Receive  thou  my  red  bleud,  as  a  due  debt 
Unit  thy  umtanl  Love,  to  which  'tis  paid : 
I  liraigot  will  meete  thee  sn  the  pleasant  shade 
Of  coole  Elysium ;   where  wee  being  met. 
Shall  taste  the  Jtyes,  that  here  wee  could  not  yet. 


PYRAMUS  AND  THISBE 

27. 

Then  thorow  his  brcst  thrusting  his  Sword,  Life  hies 
From  him,  and  hec  makes  haste  to  seeke  his  &ire. 
And  as  upon  the  cHmsond  ground  hec  lies, 
His  bloud  spirt'd  up  upon  the  Mulberries: 
With  which  th'unspotted  berries  stained  were, 
Ami  ever  tinct  with  Red  they  coloured  art. 

28. 
At  last,  came  Thisbe  from  the  Den,  for  feare 
Of  disappointing  Pyramus,  being  shee 
Was  bound  by  promrte,  for  to  meete  him  there : 
But  when  shee  saw  the  Berries  changed  were 
From  white  to  blacke,  shee  knew  not  certaincly 
It  was  the  place  where  they  agreed  to  be. 

29. 

With  what  delight  from  the  darke  Cave  shee  came. 

Thinking  to  tell  how  shee  escap'd  the  Beast; 

But  when  shee  saw  her  Pyramui  lie  slaine. 

In  what  perplexitie  shee  did  remaine ! 

Shee  tcares  her  Golden  haire,  and  beates  her  brest, 
All  signes  of  raging  sorrow  shee  exprest. 

30- 
Shee  cries  'gainst  mighty  Jove,  and  then  doth  take 
His  bleeding  body  from  the  moistned  ground. 
Shee  kisses  his  pale  &ce,  till  shee  doth  niake 
It  red  with  kissing,  and  then  seekes  to  wake 

His  parting  soule  with  mournfiill  words,  and's  wound 
Washeth  with  teares,  which  her  sweet  speech  confound. 

But  afterwards  recovering  breath,  quoth  shee, 
(Aiai)  tuhat  chance  hath  parted  thee  and  I? 
O  tell  what  evUl  hath  befallen  to  thee, 
That  of  thy  Death  I  may  a  Partner  bee  : 

Tell  Toisbe,  what  haxh  caus'd  this  Tragedie. 

He  hearing  Thitbe^i  name,  lift  up  his  eye, 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

32- 
And  on  his  Love  he  rais'd  his  dying  head: 
Where  striving  long  for  breath,  at  last,  said  hce  j 
O  Thtsbe,  /  am  halting  ta  the  dead. 
And  cannot  heale  that  fVound  my  feare  hath  bred : 
Farewell,  suieet  Thisbe,  xvee  must  parted  bte, 
Fcr  angry  Death  will  force  me  gte  from  Thee. 

33- 
Life  did  from  him,  hcc  from  his  Mistris  part, 
Leaving  his  Leve  to  languish  here  in  woe. 
What  shall  shee  doe  i     How  shall  shee  ease  her  heart  F 
Or  with  what  language  speake  her  inward  smart  P 
Usurping  passion  reason  doth  o'reflow, 
Shee  swcares  that  with  her  Pyramui  shcc'I  goe, 


34- 

Then  ukes  the  Sword  wherewith  her  Love  was  slaine, 

With  Pyramui  his  crimson  blood  warme  still ; 

And  said,  Oh  stay  (blett  Soule)  that  to  uite  ttuaine 

May  goe  together,  where  wee  thall  remaine 
In  endliise  Joyfi,  and  never  fiare  the  ill 
Of  grudging  Friends  :    Then  she  her  selfe  did  kill. 

35- 
To  tell  what  gnefe  their  Parents  did  sustaine, 
Were  more  than  my  rude  Quill  can  overcome. 
Many  a  tearc  they  spent,  but  all  in  vainc, 
For  weeping  calls  not  backe  the  Dead  againe. 
They  both  were  layed  in  one  Grave,  life  done, 
And  these  few  words  were  writ  upon  the  Tombe. 


PYRAMUS   AND  THISBE 


Epitaph. 


I. 


UNdemeatb  this  Marble  Stongy 
Lye  two  Beauties  joyrCd  in  one. 


2. 


Two  whose  loves  Death  could  not  sever^ 
For  both  liv'dy  both  dfd  together. 


Two  whose  SouliSy  being  too  divine 

For  earthy  in  their  owne  Spheare  now  shine. 


Who  have  left  their  Loves  to  Fame^ 
And  their  earth  to  earth  againe. 


FINIS. 


39 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 


An  Elegie  on  the  Death  of  the  Right  Honour- 
able, Dudley  Lord  Carleton^  Viscount  Dor- 
chester^ late  Principall  Secretary  of  State. 

THe  infernall  SisterSy  did  a  Counsell  call 
Of  all  the  fiendsy  to  the  black  Stygian  Hall ; 
The  dire  Tartarean  MonsterSy  hating  tighty 
Begot  by  dismall  Erebus,  and  Night, 
ff^heresoe^re  dispersed  abroady  hearing  the  Fame 
Of  their  accursed  meetingy  thither  came 
Revenge,  whose  greedy  mind  no  Blood  can  filly 
And  En  vie,  never  satisfied  with  ill. 
Thither  blind  Boldnesse,  and  impatient  Rage, 
Resort edy  with  Death* s  neighbour  envious  Age, 
And  Messengers  diseasesy  wheresoeWe 
Then  wandringy  at  the  Senate  present  were : 
fVhom  to  oppresse  the  Earthy  the  Furies  sent 
To  spare  the  Guiltyy  vex  the  innocent. 
The  Councell  thus  dissolv*dy  an  angry  f every 
Whose  quenchlesse  thirsty  by  blood  was  sated  never : 
Envying  the  Riches y  Honour y  Greatnessey  Lovey 
And  Vertue  {LoadstonCy  which  all  these  did  move) 
Of  Noble  Carleton,  him  she  tooke  awayy 
And  like  a  greedy  f^ulture  seised  her  prey  : 
fVeep  with  me  each  who  either  reades  or  heareSy 
And  know  his  lossey  deserves  his  Countries  teares : 
The  Muses  lost  a  Patron  by  his  Fatey 
Vertue  a  Husbandy  and  a  Prop  the  State, 
Sol's  Chorus  weepeSy  and  to  adorne  his  Herse 
Calliope  would  sing  a  Tragic ke  Verse. 

And  had  there  been  before  no  Spring  of  theirsy 
They  would  have  made  a  Helicon  wtth  teares, 

Abra.  Cowley. 


40 


AN   ELEGIE 

An  Elegie  on  the  death  of  my  loving  Friend 
and  Cousen,  Master  Richard  Clerke^  late  of 
Uncolns  Inne^  Gent. 

IT  was  decreed  by  stedfast  Destinies 
{The  world  from  Chaos  turrCd)  that  all  should  die. 
Hei  who  durst  feareUsse  passe  blacke  Acheron 
And  dangers  of  the  infernall  Region^ 
Leading  Hells  triple  Porter  captivate^ 
Was  overcome  himselfe^  by  conquering  Fate. 
The  Roman  Tullie*s  pleasing  Eloquence^ 
Which  in  the  Eares  did  locke  up  every  Sence 
Of  the  rapt  hearer^  his  mellifluous  breath 
Could  not  at  all  charme  unremonelesse  Death, 
Nor  Solon  so  by  Greece  admir^dj  could  save 
Himselfe  with  all  his  Wisdome^  from  the  Grave, 
Sterne  Fate  brought  Maro  to  his  Funerall  flame^ 
And  would  have  ended  in  that  fire  his  Fame; 
Burning  those  lofty  LineSj  which  now  shall  be 
Times  conquerersy  and  out-last  Eternity, 
Even  so  bv*d  Clerk  from  death  no  scape  could  findy 
Though  arnfd  with  great  Alcides  valiant  mind. 
He  was  adorned  in  yeeres  though  farre  more  youngs 
With  learned  Cicero*s,  or  a  sweeter  Tongue, 
And  could  dead  Virgil  heare  his  lofty  straine^ 
He  would  condemne  his  owne  to  fire  againe. 
His  youth  a  Solons  wisdome  did  presage^ 
Had  envious  Time  but  given  him  Solons  age. 
Who  would  not  therefore  nowy  if  Learnings  friendj 
Bewaile  his  fatall  and  untimely  end  : 
Who  hath  such  hardy  such  unrelenting  EyeSy 
As  would  not  weep  when  so  much  Vertue  dyes? 
The  God  of  Poets  doth  in  darknesse  shrowd 
His  glorious  facey  and  weepes  behind  a  Cloud, 
The  dolefull  Muses  thinking  now  to  write 
Sad  Elegies,  their  teares  confound  their  sight : 
But  him  to  Elysiums  lasting  Joyes  they  bringy 
Where  winged  Angels  his  sad  Requiems  sing, 

A,  C. 

41 


A   DREAME 

OF 

ELYSIUM. 


PHabus  expuh'd  by  the  a[pp]roaching  Night 
Blush'd,  and  for  shame  clos'd  in  his  bashful!  light; 
Whilst  I  with  leaden  Merphtus  overcome, 
The  Muie^  whom  I  adore,  enterd  the  roome. 
Her  hayre  with  looser  curiositie, 
Did  on  her  comely  backe  dishevel'd  lye. 
Her  Eyes  with  such  attraflive  beauty  shone, 
As  might  have  wak'd  sleeping  Endymion. 
She  bid  me  rise,  and  promis'd  I  should  see 
Those  Fields,  those  Mansions  of  Felicity, 
Wee  mortalls  so  admire  at:    Speaking  thus, 
She  lifts  me  up  upon  wing'd  Pegasus. 
On  whom  I  rid :   knowing  where  ever  she 
Did  goe,  that  place  must  needs  a  Tempe  be. 

No  sooner  was  my  flying  Courser  come 
To  the  blest  dwellings  of  Elysium : 
When  straight  a  thousand  unknowne  joyes  resort. 
And  hemm'd  me  round  :    Chast  loves  innocuous  sport. 
A  thousand  sweets,  bought  with  no  following  Gail, 
Joyes,  not  like  ours,  short,  but  perpetuall. 
How  many  objedls  charme  my  wandring  eye, 
And  bid  my  soule  gaze  there  eternally  f 
Here  in  full  streames,  Bacchus  thy  liquor  tlowes, 
Nor  knowes  to  ebbe :    here  Javts  broad  Tree  bestowes 
Distilling  hony,  heere  doth  Ntiior  passe 
With  copious  current  through  the  verdant  Grassc. 
Here  Hyacinth,  his  fete  writ  in  his  lookes. 
And  thou  Narciiiui  loving  still  the  Brookes, 


A   DREAME   OF  ELYSIUM 

Once  lovely  boyes ;  and  Acts  now  a  Flower, 

Are  nourishty  with  that  rarer  herbe,  whose  power 

Created  thee,  Warres  potent  God,  here  growes 

The  spotlesse  Lillie,  and  the  blushing  Rose. 

And  all  those  divers  ornaments  abound. 

That  variously  may  paint  the  gawdy  ground. 

No  Willow,  sorrowes  Garland,  there  hath  roome. 

Nor  Cypresse,  sad  attendant  of  a  Tombe. 

None  but  Apollfs  Tree,  and  th*Ivie  Twine 

Imbracing  the  stout  Oake,  the  fruitfuU  Vine, 

And  Trees  with  golden  Apples  loaded  downe, 

On  whose  fiiire  toppes  sweet  Philomel  alone, 

UnmindftiU  of  her  former  miserie. 

Tunes  with  her  voyce  a  ravishing  Harmonie. 

Whilst  all  the  murmuring  Brookes  that  glide  along. 

Make  up  a  burthen  to  her  pleasing  Song. 

No  Scritchowley  sad  companion  of  the  Night, 

Or  hideous  Raven  with  prodigious  flight 

Presaging  future  ill.     Nor,  Progne^  thee 

Yet  spotted  with  young  Itis  Tragedie, 

Those  Sacred  Bowers  receive.     There's  nothing  there. 

That  is  not  pure,  immaculate,  and  rare. 

Turning  my  greedy  sight  another  way. 

Under  a  row  of  storme-contemning  Bay, 

I  saw  the  Thracian  Singer  with  his  lyre 

Teach  the  deafe  stones  to  heare  him,  and  admire. 

Him  the  whole  Poets  Chorus  compass'd  round. 

All  whom  the  Oake,  all  whom  the  Lawrell  crown'd. 

There  banish'd  Ovid  had  a  lasting  home. 

Better  than  thou  couldst  give  ingratefull  Rome ; 

And  Lucan  (spight  of  Nero)  in  each  veine 

Had  every  drop  of  his  spilt  bloud  againe : 

Homery  SoPs  first  borne,  was  not  poore  or  blinde. 

But  saw  as  well  in  body  as  in  minde. 

Tulliej  grave  CatOy  Solon^  and  the  rest 

Of  Gnecii  admirM  Wisemen,  here  possest 

A  large  reward  for  their  past  deeds,  and  gaine 

A  life,  as  everlasting  as  their  Fame. 

By  these,  the  valiant  Heroes  take  their  place. 
All  who  Sterne  Death  and  perils  did  imbrace 

43 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

For  Vtrtuii  cause.     Great  Alexander  there 
Laughing  at  the  Earth's  small  Empire,  did  weare 
A  Nobler  Crowne,  than  the  whole  world  could  give. 
There  did  Horatius  CocleSy  ScevOy  live, 
And  valiant  DeciuSy  who  now  freely  cease 
From  Warre,  and  purchase  an  eternall  peace. 

Next  them,  beneath  a  Mirtle  Bowre,  where  Doves, 
And  gall-lesse  Pidgeons  build  their  nests,  all  Loves 
Faith^U  perseverers,  with  amorous  kisses. 
And  soft  imbraces,  taste  their  greediest  wishes. 
Leander  with  his  beauteous  Hero  playes. 
Nor  are  they  parted  with  dividing  Seas. 
Porcia  injoyes  her  Brutus^  Death  no  more 
Can  now  divorce  their  Wedding,  as  before. 
Thisbe  her  Pyramus  kiss'd,  his  Thisbe  hee 
Embraced,  each  blest  with  th'others  company. 
And  every  couple  alwayes  dancing,  sing 
Eternall  Ditties  to  Elysiums  King. 
But  see  how  soone  these  pleasures  fade  away. 
How  neere  to  Evening  is  delights  short  Day  ? 
For  th'watching  Bird,  true  Nuncius  of  the  Light 
Straight  crowd :  and  all  these  vanisht  from  my  sight. 
My  very  Muse  her  selfe  forsooke  mee  too. 
Me  griefe  and  wonder  wak'd  :  What  should  I  doe  ? 
Oh  1  let  me  follow  thee  (said  I)  and  goe 
From  life,  that  I  may  Dreame  for  ever  so. 
With  that  my  flying  Muse  I  thought  to  claspe 
Within  my  armes,  but  did  a  shadow  graspe. 

Thus  chtifest  Joyes  glide  with  the  swiftest  streamgy 
And  all  our  greatest  pleasure's  but  a  Dreame, 


A.  C. 


FINIS. 


44 


SYLVA, 

OR, 

DIVERS    COPIES 

OF   VERSES, 

Made  upon  sundry  occasions 

by  A.  C, 


London. 

Printed  by  E.  P.  for  Henry  Sbile 

and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop  at  the  signe  of 

the  Tygers-head  in  Fleet-street  betweene 

the  Bridge  and  the  Conduit. 

1637- 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


On  his  Majesties  returne  out  of  Scotland. 

GReat  Charles:  there  stop  you  Trumpeters  of  Fame, 
(For  he  who  speakes  his  Titles,  his  great  Name 
Must  have  a  breathing  time,)  Our  King:   stay  there, 
Tel't  bv  degrees,  let  the  inquisitive  eare 
Be  hela  in  doubt,  and  ere  you  say,  /;  comiy 
Let  every  heart  prepare  a  spatious  roome 
For  ample  joyes :    then  l9  sing  as  loud 
As  thunder  shot  from  the  divided  cloud. 

Let  Cygnus  plucke  from  the  Arabian  waves 
The  ruby  of  the  rocke,  the  pearle  that  paves 
Great  Neptunes  Court,  let  every  sparrow  beare 
From  the  three  Sisters  weeping  barke  a  teare. 
Let  spotted  Lynces  their  sharpe  tallons  fill 
With  chrystalf  fetch'd  from  the  Promethean  hill. 
Let  Cythereas  birds  fresh  wreathes  compose. 
Knitting  the  pale  fac't  Lillie  with  the  Rose. 
Let  the  selfe-gotten  Phoenix  rob  his  nest, 
Spoile  his  owne  funerall  pile,  and  all  his  best 
Of  Myrrhe,  of  Frankincense,  of  Cassia  bring. 
To  strew  the  way  for  our  returned  King. 

Let  every  post  a  Panegyricke  weare. 
Each  wall,  each  pillar  gratulations  beare : 
And  yet  let  no  man  invocate  a  Muse ; 
The  very  matter  will  it  selfe  infuse 
A  sacred  fiiry.     Let  the  merry  Bells 
(For  unknowne  joyes  worke  unknowne  miracles) 
Ring  without  helpe  of  Sexton^  and  presage 
A  new-made  holy-day  for  future  age. 

And  if  the  Ancients  us'd  to  dedicate 
A  golden  Temple  to  propitious  fate, 
At  the  returne  of  any  Noble  men. 
Of  Heroes,  or  of  Emperours,  wee  must  then 
Raise  up  a  double  Trophee^  for  their  fame 
Was  but  the  shadow  of  our  CHARLES  his  name. 
Who  is  there  where  all  vertues  mingled  flow  ? 
Where  no  defeats,  no  imperfections  grow  ? 

46 


SYLVA 

Whose  head  is  alwayes  crown'd  with  vi&ory, 

Snatch'd  from  BelUnas  hand,  him  luxuiy 

In  peace  debilitates,  whose  tongue  can  win, 

7ulEts  owne  Garland,  to  him  pride  creeps  in. 

On  whom  (like  Atlat  shoulders)  the  propt  state 

(As  he  were  Primum  MtbUt  of  fete) 

Solely,  relics,  him  blind  ambition  moves. 

His  tyranny  the  bridled  subjeA  proves. 

But  ^1  those  vcrtues  which  they  all  possest 

Divided,  arc  coUedcd  in  thy  brest, 

Great  Cbarlei^    Let  Cteiar  boast  P^^ha^na/ias  fight, 

Heiurius  praise  the  Parlhians  unfeyn'd  flight. 

Let  Alexander  call  himself  yeves  peere. 

And  place  his  Image  next  the  Thunderer, 

Yet  whilst  our  CharUt  with  equal)  ballance  reignes 

*Twixt  Mercy  and  Astrea,  and  maintaines 

A  noble  peace,  'tis  he,  'tis  onely  he 

Who  is  most  neere,  most  like  the  Deitie. 


A  Song  on  the  same.   ''_. 

HEtK€  clauded  luies,  htnct  briny  tearts 
Henct  eye,  that  iorrows  Hvtry  weares. 
fVhat  though  a  while  Apollo  p/tase 
TV  visit  the  Antipodes? 
Tet  he  rttumes,  and  with  his  light 
Expels,  uihat  he  hath  caused,  the  night. 
JVhat  though  tbt  spring  vanish  away. 
And  vjilh  it  the  tarths  firme  decay  ? 
Tet  afi  new  birth  it  will  restore 
JVhat  it's  departure  tooie  before. 
What  though  vJi  mist  our  absent  King 
Erewhile?     Great  Charles  is  tome  agin. 
And,  with  his  presence  makes  us  know. 
The  gratitude  to  Heaven  wee  owe. 
St  doth  a  cruell  storme  impart 
And  teach  us  Palinurus  art. 
So  from  salt  Jlouds,  wept  by  our  eyes, 
A  joyJuU  Venus  doth  arise. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 
A  Vote. 


IEst  the  misconstn'ng  world  should  chvicc  to  say, 
_^  I  durst  not  but  in  secret  murmurs  pray, 

To  whisper  in  Jovei  eare, 
How  much  I  wish  that  mnerall, 
Or  gape  at  such  a  great  ones  fiill, 

This  let  all  ages  heare, 
And  future  times  in  my  soules  pifhire  see 
What  I  abhorre,  what  I  desire  to  bee. 

2. 
I  would  not  be  a  Puritan,  though  he 
Can  preach  two  houres,  and  yet  his  Sermon  be 

But  halfe  a  quarter  long, 
Though  from  his  old  mechanicke  trade 
By  vision  hee's  a  Pastor  made. 

His  faith  was  growne  so  strong. 
Nay  though  he  thinkc  to  gaine  salvation, 
By  calling  th'Pope  the  Whore  of  Babylon. 

3- 
I  would  not  be  a  School- master,  though  he 
His  Rods  no  lesse  than  Fasces  deemes  to  be, 

Though  he  in  many  a  place, 
Turnes  Lilly  oftner  than  his  gowncs, 
Till  at  the  last  hee  make  the  Nownes, 

Fight  with  the  Vcrbcs  apace. 
Nay  though  he  can  in  a  Poetickc  heat, 
Figures,  borne  since,  out  of  poore  f^irgUl  beat. 

4- 
I  would  not  be  Justice  of  Peace,  though  he 
Can  with  equality  divide  the  Fee, 

And  stakes  with  his  Clarke  draw. 
Nay  though  he  sit  upon  the  place 
Of  Judgement  with  a  learned  face 

Intricate  as  the  Law, 
And  whilst  he  mul£h  enormities  demurely, 
Breaks  Pritc'tans  head  with  sentences  securely. 


SYLVA 

5. 
I  would  not  be  a  Courtier,  though  he 
Makes  his  whole  life  the  truest  Comedy : 

Although  he  be  a  man 
In  whom  the  Taylors  forming  Art, 
And  nimble  Barber  claime  more  part 

Than  Nature  her  selfe  can. 
Though,  as  he  uses  men,  'tis  his  intent 
To  put  off  death  too,  with  a  Complemen 


From  Lawyers  tongues,  though  they  can  spin  with  ease 
The  shortest  cause  into  a  Paraphrase, 

From  Usurers  conscience 
(For  swallowing  up  young  Heyres  so  ^t 
Without  all  doubt,  they'l  choakt  at  last) 

Make  me  all  innocence 
Good  Heaven ;  and  from  thy  eyes,  6  Justice  keepe, 
For  though  they  be  not  blind,  they're  oft  asleepc. 

7- 
From  Singing-mens  Religion ;   who  are 
Alwayes  at  Church  just  like  the  Crowes,  'cause  there 

They  build  themselves  a  nest. 
From  too  much  Poetry,  which  shines 
With  gold  in  nothing  but  its  lines. 

Free,  fl  you  powers,  my  brest. 
And  from  Astronomy  within  the  skies 
Finds  fish,  and  bulls,  yet  doth  but  Tantalize. 


From  your  Court-Madams  beauty,  which  doth  cany 
At  morning  May,  at  night  a  January. 

From  the  grave  City  brow 
(For  though  it  want  an  R,  it  has 
The  letter  of  Pythagoras) 

Keepe  me  6  Fortune  now. 
And  chines  of  beefe  innumerable  send  me. 
Or  from  the  stomacke  of  the  Guard  defi;nd  me. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

9- 
This  oncly  grant  me :   that  my  meanes  may  lye 
Too  low  for  cnvie,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honour  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone, 
Th'ignote  are  better  than  ill  knowne 

R[u]mor  can  ope  the  grave. 
Ac<]uaintance  I  would  hug,  but  when't  depends 
Not  from  the  number,  but  the  choysc  of  friends. 

lO. 

Bookes  should,  not  businesse,  entertainc  the  h'ght, 
And  slcepe,  as  undisturb'd  as  death  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Then  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxurie. 

My  garden  painted  ore 
With  natures  hand,  not  arts  and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envie  in  his  Sabint  field. 


Thus  would  I  double  my  Ufes  &ding  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 
These  unbought  sports,  and  happy  state, 
I  would  nor  feare,  nor  wish  my  fate, 

But  boldly  say  each  night, 
To  morrow  let  my  Sunne  liis  beames  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them ;   I  havi  liv'J  tit  day. 

A  Poeticall  Revenge. 

WEitminster-HaU  a  friend  and  I  agreed 
To  meet  in ;   hee  (some  busines  'twas  did  breed 
His  absence)  came  not  there ;   I  up  did  goe. 
To  the  next  Court  for  though  I  could  not  know 
Much  what  they  meant,  yet  I  might  see  and  heare 
(As  most  spectators  doc  at  Theater) 
Things  very  strange ;   Fortune  did  seeme  to  grace 
My  comming  there,  and  helpt  me  to  a  place. 
SO 


f  SYLVA 

But  being  newly  setlcd  at  the  sport, 
A  semi-gentleman  of  th'lnnes  of  Courtt 
In  a  Satiin  suite,  redecm'd  but  yesterday; 
One  who  is  ravisht  with  a  Cock-pit  Play, 
Who  prayes  God  to  deliver  him    from  no  evill 
Besides  a  Taylors  bill,  and  feares  no  Devill 
Besides  a  Serjeant,  thrust  me  from  my  seat  : 
At  which  I  gan  to  quarrel!,  till  a  neat 
Man  in  a  ruffe  (whom  therefore   I  did  take 
For  Barrister)  open'd  his  mouth  and  spake ; 
Boy,  get  you  gone,  this  is  no  Schoole :    Oh  no ; 
For  if  it  were,  all  you  gown'd-men  would  goe 
Up  for  false  Latin  ;    they  grew  straight  to  be 
Incenst,  I  fear'd  they  would  have   brought  on  me 
An  A^ion  of  Trcspas,  till  th'young  man 
Aforesaid,  in  the  Sattin  suit,  began 
To  strike  me :    doubtlesse  there  had  bccnc  a  fray, 
Had  not  I  providently  skipp'd  away, 
Without  replying;    for  to  scould   Is  ill. 
Where  every  tongue's  the  clapper  of  a  Mill, 
And  can  out-sound  Hamers  Gradivut ;    so 
Away  got  I :    but  ere  I   farre  did  goe, 
I  flung  (the  Darts  of  wounding  Psetnt) 
These  two  or  three  sharpe  cur^s  backe :    May  hee 
Be  by  his  Father  in  his  Study  tooke 
At  Sbaitipearis  Playes,  in  stead  of  my  L.   Cuoie. 
May  hee  (though  all  his  Writings  grow  as  soone 
As  Butun  out  of  estimation) 
Get  him  a  Poets  name,  and  so  nc'r  come 
Into  a  Sergeants,  or  dead  Judges  roomc. 
r  May  hee  (for  'tis  sinne  in  a  Laivyer) 
■  True  Latin  use  to  speake,  even  at  the  Barre. 
iMay  hee  become  some  poorc  Physicians  prey, 
|Who  keepes  men  with  that  conscience  in  delay 
>  he  his  Clyents  doth,  till  his  health  bee 
s  ferre  fetch'd  as  a  Greeke  Nownes  pedigree. 
'or  all  that,  may  the  disease  be  gone 
Never  but  in  the  long  Vacation. 
May  Neighbours  use  all  Quarrels  to  decide  ; 
But  if  for  Law  any  to  Lendan  ride. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Of  all  those  Clients  may  no  one  be  his, 
Unlcssc  he  come  in  Farma  Pauperis. 

Grant  this  you  Gods,  that  fevour  Poetry, 
That  so  at  last  these  ceaselcssc  tongues  may  be 
Brought  into  reformation,  and  not  dare 
To  quarrell  with  a  thrcdbare  Black ;   but  spare 

Them  who  bearc  Scholars  names,  lest  some  one  take 

Spleenc,  and  another  Ignsremus  make. 


To  the  Duchesse  of  Buckingham. 

IF  I  should  say,  that  in  your  face  were  scene 
Natures  best  Pitturc  of  the  Cyprian  Qucene ; 
If  I  should  sweare  under  Minerva's  Name, 
Peels  (who  Prophets  are)  fore-told  your  fitme. 
The  future  age  would  thinke  it  flatterie, 
But  to  the  present  which  can  witncsse  be, 
Twould  seeme  beneath  your  high  deserts,  as  &rre, 
As  you  above  the  rest  of  Women  are, 

When  Manners  name  with  f^illieri  joyn'd  I  see, 
How  doe  I  reverence  your  Nobilitie  1 
But  when  the  vertues  of  your  Stock  I  view, 
(Envi'd  in  your  dead  Lord,  admir'd  in  you) 
I  halfc  adore  them :   for  what  woman  can 
Besides  your  selfe  (nay  I  might  say  what  man) 
Both  Scxe,  and  Birth,  and  Fate,  and  yeeres  excell 
In  mtnde,  in  fame,  in  worth,  in  living  well? 

Oh,  how  had  this  begot  Idolatrie, 
If  you  had  liv'd  in  the  Worlds  in&ncic, 
When  mans  too  much  Religion,  made  the  best 
Or  Deities,  or  Semi-gods  at  least  ? 
But  wee,  forbidden  this  by  pietie. 
Or,  if  wee  T*ere  not,  by  your  modcstie, 
Will  make  our  hearts  an  Altar,  and  there  prajr 
Not  to,  but  for  you,  nor  that  England  may 
Enjoy  your  cquall,  when  you  once  are  gone, 
But  what's  more  possible,  t'enjoy  you  long. 


SYLVA 


/  To  his  very  much  honoured  Godfather ^ 

Master  A.  B. 

ILove  (for  that  upon  the  wings  of  Fame 
Shall  perhaps  mock  Death  or  times  Darts)  my  Name. 
I  love  it  more,  because  'twas  given  by  you ; 
I  love  it  most,  because  'twas  your  name  too. 
For  if  I  chance  to  slip,  a  conscious  shame 
Plucks  me,  and  bids  me  not  defile  your  name. 

I'm  glad  that  Citie  t'whom  I  ow'd  before, 
(But  ah  me  I   Fate  hath  crost  that  willing  Score) 
A  Father,  gave  me  a  Godfather  too. 
And  I'm  more  glad,  because  it  gave  me  you; 

Whom  I  may  rightly  thinke,  and  terme  to  be 

Of  the  whole  Citie  an  Epitomie. 

I  thanke  my  carefull  Fate,  which  found  out  one 
(When  Nature  had  not  licenced  my  tongue 
Farther  then  cryes)  who  should  my  office  doe ; 
I  thanke  her  more,  because  shee  found  out  you : 

In  whose  each  looke,  I  may  a  sentence  see ; 

In  whose  each  deed,  a  teaching  Homily. 

How  shall  I  pay  this  debt  to  you  ?     My  Fate 
Denyes  me  Indian  Pearle  or  Persian  Plate. 
Which  though  it  did  not,  to  requite  you  thus. 
Were  to  send  Apples  to  AlcinoUs^ 
And  sell  the  cunning'st  way :    No,  when  I  can 
In  every  Leafe,  in  every  verse  write  Man, 
When  my  Quill  relisheth  a  Schoole  no  more, 
When  my  pen-feather'd  Muse  hath  learnt  to  soare. 
And  gotten  wings  as  well  as  feet ;   looke  then 
For  ^uall  thankes  from  my  unwearied  Pen : 
Till  future  ages  say;    'twas  you  did  give 
A  name  to  me,  and  I  made  yours  to  live. 

53 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 
An  Elegie  on  the  Death  of 

M™  Anne  Whitfield. 

SHee^s  deadj  and  like  the  boure  that  stole  her  bencej 
fVith  as  much  quietnesse  and  innocence. 
And  *tis  as  difficult  a  taske  to  winne 
Her  travelling  soule  backe  to  its  former  Inne^ 
As  force  that  houre^  fled  without  tra£f  away^ 
To  turney  and  stop  the  current  of  the  day. 

Whaty  shall  we  weepe  for  this  ?  and  cloath  our  eye 
With  sorrow^  the  Graves  mourning  Liverief 
Or  shall  we  sigh?   and  with  that  pious  winde 
Drive  faster  on  what  we  alreadie  finde 
Too  swift  for  usy  her  soule  ?     No ;    shee  who  dy^de 
Like  the  stcke  Sunne^  when  Night  entombes  his  pride  \ 
Or  Trees  in  Autumne^  when  unseene  decay 
And  slow  consumption  steales  the  leaves  away^ 
Without  one  murmur^  shewes  that  she  did  see 
Death  as  a  goody  not  as  a  miserie. 

And  so  she  went  to  undiscovered  Fieldsy 
From  whence  no  path  hope  of  returning  yeelds 
To  any  Travellery  and  it  must  be 
Our  solace  now  to  court  her  memorie. 
fVeeU  tell  how  love  was  dandled  in  her  eye^ 
Tet  curVd  with  a  beseeming  gravitie. 
And  how  (beleeve  it  you  that  heare  or  reade) 
Beautie  and  Chastitie  met  and  agreed 
In  hery  although  a  Courtier :    Wee  will  tell 
How  farre  her  noble  spirit  did  excell 
HerSy  nay  our  Sexe :   wee  will  repeat  her  NamCy 
And  force  the  Letters  to  an  Anagram. 
Whitfield  weeU  cryy  and  amorous  windes  shall  be 
Ready  to  snatch  that  words  sweet  harmonie 
Ere  *tis  spoke  out :    Thus  wee  must  dull  griefes  stingy 
And  cheat  the  sorrow  that  her  losse  would  bring: 
Thus  in  our  hearts  wee'l  bury  hery  and  there 
Wefl  writey  Here  lyes  Whitfield  the  chast,  and  fairc. 

Art  may  no  doubt  a  statelier  Tombe  inventy 

But  not  like  thisy  a  living  Monument. 


54 


SYLVA 


An  Elegie  on  the  Death  of  yohn  Little- 
ton Esquire,  Sonne  and  Heire  to  Sir  Thomas 
Littleton^  who  was  drowned  leaping  into  the  water 
to  save  his  younger  Brother. 

\Nii  must  these  waters  smile  againe?   and  play 
£\,  About  the  shorej  as  they  did  yesterday  ? 
Will  the  Sun  court  them  still?   and  shall  they  show 
No  conscious  wrinckle  furrowed  on  their  broWj 
That  to  the  thirsty  Travellor  may  say^ 
I  am  accurst^  goe  turne  some  other  way? 

It  is  unjust ;  black  floud^  thy  guilt  ts  morcj 
Sprung  from  Ins  hsse^  then  all  thy  watry  store 
Can  give  thee  teares  to  mourne  for :   Birds  shall  bee 
And  Beasts  henceforth  afraid  to  drinke  of  thee. 

What  have  I  said?   my  pious  rage  hath  beene 
Too  hoty  and  aSfs  whilst  it  accuseth  sinne, 
ThouWt  innocent  I  know^  still  cleare^  and  bright^ 
Fit  whence  so  pure  a  soule  should  take  ii*s  flight. 
How  is  my  angry  zeale  confirCd?  for  hee 
Must  quarrell  with  his  love  and  pieticy 
That  would  revenge  his  death.     Oh  I  shall  sinne^ 
And  wish  anon  he  had  lesse  vertuous  beene. 
For  when  his  Brother  (teares  for  him  Pde  spilly 
But  they're  all  challenged  by  the  greater  ill) 
Struglid  for  life  with  the  rude  waveSy  he  too 
Leapt  iny  and  when  hope  no  faint  beame  could  shoWy 
His  charitie  shone  most ;    thou  shalty  said  heCy 
Live  with  mcy  Brothery  or  He  dye  with  thee ; 
And  so  he  did :   Had  he  beene  thinCy  6  Rome, 
Thou  wouldst  have  calPd  this  death  a  MartyrdomCy 
And  Saynted  him'y    my  conscience  give  me  leavcy 
He  doe  so  too:    if  fate  will  us  bereave 
Of  him  we  honoured  livingy  there  must  be 
A  kinde  of  reverence  to  his  memoricy 

55 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

After  bis  death :   and  where  more  just  then  here^ 

tvhere  life  and  end  were  both  so  singuler? 

Of  which  tVone  grieft^  the  other  imitation 

Of  all  men  vindicates^  both  admiration. 

Me  that  had  onely  talkt  with  him^  might  finde 

A  little  Academic  in  his  minde\ 

Where  Wiscdome,  Master  was^  and  Fellowes  all 

Which  we  can  goody  which  we  can  vertuous  call. 

Reason  and  Holy  Feare  the  Proftors  were^ 

To  apprehend  those  wordsj  those  thoughts  that  erre. 

His  learning  had  out-run  the  rest  of  heyres^ 

Stolm  Beard  from  time^  and  leapt  to  twentie  yeares. 

And  as  the  Sunne^  though  in  full  glorie  bright^ 

Shines  upon  all  men  with  impartiall  lighty 

And  a  good  morrow  to  the  begger  brings 

With  as  full  rayes  as  to  the  mightiest  Kings : 

So  hej  although  his  worth  Just  state  might  claime^ 

And  give  to  pride  an  honourable  name^ 

With  curtesie  to  ally  cloath^d  vertue  soj 

That  *twas  not  higher  then  his  thoughts  wen  low, 

In*s  body  tooy  no  Critique  eye  could  finde 

The  smallest  blemish^  to  belye  his  mtnde ; 

He  was  all  purenesse^  and  his  outward  part 

The  looking'glasse  and  piSfure  of  his  heart. 

When  waters  swallowed  mankinde^  and  did  cheat 

The  hungry  Worme  of  its  expected  meat ; 

When  gemmeSy  pluckt  from  the  shore  by  ruder  hands^ 

Returned  againe  unto  their  native  sands  \ 

^Mongst  all  those  spoyleSy  there  was  not  any  prey 

Could  equall  what  this  Brooke  hath  stolne  away. 

Weepe  then^  sad  Floud\   and  though  thouWt  innocent^ 
Weepe  because  fate  made  thee  her  instrument : 
And  when  long  griefe  hath  drunke  up  all  thy  store^ 
Come  to  our  eyeSy  and  we  will  lend  thee  more. 


56 


SYLVA 


A  translation  of  Verses  upon  the  B.  Virgin, 

written  in  Latine  by  the  right 

Worshipfull  Dr.  A. 


Ave  Maria, 

ONce  thou  rejoycedst,  and  rejoyce  for  ever, 
Whose  time  of  joy  shall  be  expired  never : 
Who  in  her  wombe  the  Hive  of  Comfort  beares, 
Let  her  drinke  Comforts  Honey  with  her  eares. 
You  brought  the  word  of  joy,  which  did  impart 
An  Haile  to  all,  let  us  An  Hai/e  redart. 
From  you  God  save  into  the  World  there  came; 
Our  £ccbo  Haile  is  but  an  empty  name. 

Gratia  Plena, 

How  loaded  Hives  are  with  their  Honie  filFd, 
From  diverse  Flowres  by  Chimicke  Bees  distill'd: 
How  fiill  the  Collet  with  his  Jewell  is, 
Which,  that  it  cannot  take,  by  love  doth  kisse: 
How  full  the  Moone  is  with  her  Brothers  ray. 
When  shee  drinks  up  with  thirsty  or  be  the  day. 
How  full  of  Grace  the  Graces  dances  are. 
So  fiill  doth  Mary  of  Gods  light  appeare. 
It  is  no  wonder  if  with  Graces  she 
Be  full,  who  was  full  with  the  Deitie. 

Dominus  tecum. 

The  fall  of  mankind  under  deaths  extent 
The  quire  of  blessed  Angels  did  lament. 
And  wisht  a  reparation  to  see 
By  him,  who  manhood  joyn'd  with  Deitie. 
How  gratefull  should  Mans  safety  then  appeare 
T'himsclfe,  whose  safety  can  the  Angels  cheare  ? 


57 


* 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 


Benedilta  tu  in  mulitribus, 

Dtath  came,  and  troopes  of  sad  dUeasti  led 

To  th'earth,  by  womans  hand  solicited. 

iV^  came  so  too,  and  troopes  of  Graces  led 

To  th'carth,  by  womans  faith  solicited. 

As  our  lifes  spring  came  from  thy  blessed  wombe, 

So  from  our  mouthes  springs  of  thy  praise  shall  come. 

Who  did  lifes  blessing  give,  'tis  fit  that  she 

Above  all  women  should  thrice  blessed  be. 


Et  henedi£lus  fruEius  ventris  tui. 

With  mouth  divine  the  Father  doth  protest, 

Hee  a  good  word  sent  from  his  stored  brest, 

'Twas  Christ:    which  Mary  without  carnall  thought, 

From  the  unfatham'd  depth  of  goodnesse  brought, 

The  word  of  blessing  a  just  cause  affoords. 

To  be  oft  blessed  with  redoubled  words. 

Spiritus  San£Ius  iuperveniet  in  tt^ 
As  when  soft  West  winds  strooke  the  Garden  Rose, 
A  showrc  of  sweeter  ayre  salutes  the  Nose. 
The  breath  gives  sparing  kisses,  nor  with  powre 
Unlocks  the  Virgin  bosome  of  the  Flowre. 
So  tWHsIj  Spirit  upon  Mary  blow'd. 
And  from  her  sacred  Box  whole  rivers  flow'd. 
Yet  loos'd  not  thine  cternall  chastity, 
Thy  Roses  folds  doe  still  entangled  lye. 
Beleeve  Christ  borne  from  an  unbruised  wombe. 
So  from  unbruised  Barke  the  Odors  come. 

Et  virtus  altistimi  ehumbrahst  tibi. 
God  his  great  Sonne  begot  ere  time  b^unne, 
Mary  in  time  brought  forth  her  little  Sonne. 
Of  double  substance,  one,  life  hee  began, 
Ged  without  Mather,  without  Father  Man. 
Great  is  this  birth,  and  'tis  a  stranger  deed, 
That  thee  no  man,  then  God  no  wife  should  need. 


SYLVA 

A  shade  delighted  the  Child-bearing  Maid, 
And  God  himselfe  became  to  her  a  shade. 
O  strange  descent!   who  is  lights  Author,  hee 
Will  to  his  creature  thus  a  shadow  bee. 
As  unseene  light  did  from  the  Father  flow, 
So  did  seene  light  from  Firgin  Marie  grow. 
When  Moses  sought  God  in  a  shade  to  see. 
The  Fathers  shade  was,  Christ  the  Deitie, 
Let's  seeke  for  day  we  darknesse,  whil'st  our  sight 
In  light  findes  darknesse,  and  in  darknesse  light. 


/ode  I. 

On  the  praise  of  Poetry. 

"HP^Is  not  a  Pyramide  of  Marble  stone, 
X  Though  high  as  our  ambition, 

nris  not  a  Tombe  cut  out  in  Brasse,  which  can 

Give  life  to  th'ashes  of  a  man. 
But  Verses  onely;   they  shall  fresh  appeare, 

Whil'st  there  are  men  to  reade,  or  heare. 
When  Time  shall  make  the  lasting  Brasse  decay. 

And  eate  the  Pyramide  away. 
Turning  that  Monument  wherein  men  trust 

Their  names,  to  what  it  keepes,  poore  dust: 
Then  shall  the  Epitaph  remaine,  and  be 

New  graven  in  Eternitie. 
Poets  by  death  are  conquered,  but  the  wit 

Of  Poets  triumph  over  it. 
What  cannot  Verse?   When  Thracian  Orpheus  tooke 

His  Lyre,  and  gently  on  it  strooke. 
The  learned  stones  came  dancing  all  along. 

And  kept  time  to  the  charming  song. 
With  artificiall  pace  the  Warlike  Pine^ 

TVElmej  and  his  Wife  the  Ivy  twine j 
With  all  the  better  trees,  which  erst  had  stood 

Unmov'd,  forsooke  their  native  Wood. 

59 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

The  Lawrell  to  the  Poets  hand  did  bow, 

Craving  the  honour  of  his  brow : 
And  every  loving  arme  embrac'd,  and  made 

With  their  officious  leaves  a  shade. 
The  beasts  too  strove  his  auditors  to  be, 

Forgetting  their  old  Tyrannie. 
The  fearefuU  Hart  next  to  the  Lion  came, 

And  JVolfe  was  Shipheard  to  the  Lambe. 
Nightingalis^  harmlesse  Syrens  of  the  ayre, 

And  Muses  of  the  place,  were  there. 
Who  when  their  little  windpipes  they  had  found 

Unequall  to  so  strange  a  sound, 
O'recome  by  art  and  griefe  they  did  expire. 

And  fell  upon  the  conquering  Lyre. 
Happy,  6  happy  they,  whose  Tombe  might  be, 

MausoluSy  envied  by  thee  ! 


ODE  II. 

That  a  pleasant  Poverty  is  to  be  preferred 
before  discontented  Riches. 

I. 

WHy  6  doth  gaudy  Tagus  ravish  thee. 
Though  Neptunes  Treasure-house  it  be? 
Why  doth  PaSiolus  thee  bewitch, 
Infedled  yet  with  Midas  glorious  Itch  ? 

2. 

Their  dull  and  sleepie  streames  are  not  at  all 
Like  other  Flouds,  Poetically 
They  have  no  dance,  no  wanton  sport. 

No  gentle  murmur,  the  lov'd  shore  to  court. 

3- 

No  Fish  inhabite  the  adulterate  Floud, 

Nor  can  it  feed  the  neighbouring  Wood, 
No  Flower  or  Herbe  is  neere  it  found. 

But  a  perpetuall  Winter  sterves  the  ground. 


6o 


SYLVA 

4- 

Give  me  a  River  which  doth  scorne  to  shew 
An  added  beauty,  whose  cleere  brow 
May  be  my  looking-glasse,  to  see 

What  my  face  is,  and  what  my  mind  should  be. 

5. 
Here  waves  call  waves,  and  glide  along  in  ranke, 

And  prattle  to  the  smiling  banke. 

Here  sad  King  fishers  tell  their  tales, 
And  fish  enrich  the  Brooke  with  silver  scales. 

6. 

Dasjes  the  first  borne  of  the  teeming  Spring, 
On  each  side  their  embrodery  bring, 
Here  LilUes  wash,  and  grow  more  white. 

And  Daffadilb  to  see  themselves  delight. 

7- 
Here  a  fresh  Arbor  gives  her  amorous  shade. 

Which  Naturiy  the  best  Gardiner  made. 

Here  I  would  set,  and  sing  rude  layes. 
Such  as  the  Nimpbs  and  me  my  selfe  should  please. 

8. 

Thus  I  would  waste,  thus  end  my  carelesse  dayes. 
And  Robin^red'brests  whom  men  praise 
For  pious  birds,  should  when  I  dye. 

Make  both  my  Monument  and  Elegie, 

ODE  III. 

To  his.  Mistris. 

TYrtan  dye  why  doe  you  weare 
You  whose  cheekes  best  scarlet  are  ? 
Why  doc  you  fondly  pin 
Pure  linnens  ore  your  skin. 
Your  skin  that's  whiter  farre. 
Casting  a  duskie  cloud  before  a  Starre  ? 


61 


\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Why  bearcs  your  ncckc  a  golden  chayne  t 
Did  Nature  make  your  hairc  in  vaine, 

Of  Gold  most  pure  and  line  ? 

With  gemmes  why  doe  you  shine  ? 

They,  neighbours  to  your  eyes, 
Shew  but  like  Phttpher,  when  the  Sunnt  doth  rise. 


I  would  have  all  my  Mislrh  parts, 
Owe  more  to  Nature  then  to  Arts, 

I  would  not  woe  the  dressc, 

Or  one  whose  nights  give  lesse 

Contentment,  then  the  day. 
Shce's  faire,  whose  beauty  onely  makes  her  gay. 


For  'tis  not  buildings  make  a  Court 

Or  pompe,  but  'tis  the  Kings  resort : 

If  Jupiter  downe  powrc 

Himselfc,  and  in  a  showre 

Hide  such  bright  Majestit 

Lesse  then  a  golden  one  it  cannot  be. 


ODE   IV. 

On  the  uncertainty  of  Fortune.     A  Translation. 


LEavc  off  unfit  complaints,  and  cleere 
From  sighs  your  brest,  and  from  black  clouds  your  brow, 
When  the  Sunne  shines  not  with  his  wonted  cheere, 
And  Fortune  throwes  an  adverse  cast  for  you. 

That  Sea  which  vext  with  Netui  is, 
The  merry  Eaitwindt  will  to  morrow  kisse. 
62 


SYLVA 

2. 

The  Sunne  to  day  rides  drousily, 
To  morrow  'twill  put  on  a  looke  more  faire, 
Laughter  and  groaning  doe  alternately 
Returne,  and  teares  sports  neerest  neighbours  are. 

*Tis  by  the  Gods  appointed  so 
That  good  fiite  should  with  mingled  dangers  flow. 

3- 

Who  drave  his  Oxen  yesterday, 
Ooth  now  over  the  Noblest  Romanes  reigne. 
And  on  the  Gabiiy  and  the  Cures  lay 
The  yoake  which  from  his  Oxen  he  had  tane. 

Whom  Hesperus  saw  poore  and  low, 
The  mornings  eye  beholds  him  greatest  now. 

4- 
If  Fortune  knit  amongst  her  play 
But.seriousnesse;   he  shall  againe  goe  home 
To  his  old  Country  Farme  of  yesterday. 
To  scoffing  people  no  meane  jest  become. 
And  with  the  crowned  Axe^  which  he 
Had  rul'd  the  World,  goe  backe  and  prune  some  Tree. 
Nay  if  he  want  the  fuell  cold  requires. 
With  his  owne  Fasces  he  shall  make  him  fires. 


ODE   V. 

In  commendation  of  the  time  we  live  under  the 
Reign  of  our  gracious  K.  Charles. 

[I.] 

Urst  be  that  wretch  (Deaths  Faftor  sure)  who  brought 
Dire  Swords  into  the  peaceful!  world,  and  taught 
Smiths,  who  before  could  onely  make 
The  Spade,  the  Plowshare,  and  the  Rake; 

Arts,  in  most  cruell  wise 

Mans  life  t'epitomize. 

63 


c 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

2. 

Then  men  (fond  men  alas)  rid  post  to  th*gravc, 
And  cut  those  threads^  which  vet  the  Fates  would  save. 
Then  Charon  sweated  at  his  trade, 
And  had  a  bigger  Ferry  made, 
Then,  then  the  silver  hayre. 
Frequent  before,  grew  rare. 

3- 

Then  Revenge  married  to  Ambition^ 
Begat  blacke  Warre^  then  Avarice  crept  on. 
Then  limits  to  each  field  were  strain'd. 
And  Terminus  a  Godhead  gain'd. 
To  men  before  was  found. 
Besides  the  Sea,  no  bound. 

4- 

In  what  Playne  or  what  River  hath  not  beene 
War  res  story,  writ  in  blood  (sad  story)  seene  ? 
This  truth  too  well  our  England  knowes, 
'Twas  civill  slaughter  dy'd  her  Rose : 
Nay  then  her  Lillie  too. 
With  bloods  losse  paler  grew. 

5. 

Such  griefes,  nay  worse  than  these,  we  now  should  feele, 
Did  not  just  Charles  silence  the  rage  of  Steele ; 
He  to  our  Land  blest  peace  doth  bring. 
All  Neighbour  Countries  envying. 
Happy  who  did  remaine 
Unborne  till  Charles  his  reigne/ 

6. 

Where  dreaming  Chimicks  is  you[r]  paine  and  cost? 
How  is  your  oyle,  how  is  your  labour  lost  ? 

Our  Char/eSy  blest  Alchymist  (though  strange, 
Beleeve  it  future  times)  did  change 
The  Iron  age  of  old. 
Into  an  age  of  Gold. 

64 


ODE 


ODE   VI. 

Upon  the  shortnesse  of  Mans  life. 

MArke  that  swift  Arrow  how  it  cuts  the  ayrc, 
How  it  out-runncs  thy  hunting  eye, 
Use  all  perswasions  now,  and  try 
If  thou  canst  call  it  backe,  or  stay  it  there. 

That  way  it  went,  but  thou  shalt  find 

No  trad  of  't  left  behind. 
Foole  'tis  thy  life,  and  the  fond  Archer^  thou, 

Of  all  the  time  thou'st  shot  away 

He  bid  thee  fetch  but  yesterday. 
And  it  shall  be  too  hard  a  taske  to  doe. 

Besides  repentance,  what  canst  find 

That  it  hath  left  behind? 
Our  life  is  carried  with  too  strong  a  tyde, 

A  doubtftiU  Cloud  our  substance  beares. 

And  is  the  Horse  of  all  our  yeares. 
Each  day  doth  on  a  winged  whirle-wind  ride. 

fVee  and  our  Glasse  run  out,  and  must 

Both  render  up  our  dust. 
But  his  past  life  who  without  griefe  can  see. 

Who  never  thinkes  his  end  too  neere, 

But  sayes  to  Fame^  thou  art  mine  Heire. 
That  man  extends  lifes  naturall  brevity. 

This  is,  this  is  the  onely  way 

T*  out-live  Nestor  in  a  day. 


CVL  E  65 


{ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 
An   Answer   to   an   Invitation   to 


NUhoby  mjr  better  selfe,  forbeare, 
For  if  thou  telst  what  Camhridgi  pleasures  are, 
The  Schoott-boyes  sinne  will  light  on  me, 
I  shall  in  mind  at  least  a  Truant  be, 

Tell  mc  not  how  you  feed  your  minde 
With  dainties  of  Phikiopby, 
In  Ovids  Nut  I  shall  not  nnde, 
The  Ustc  once  pleased  me. 

0  tell  me  not  of  Logicis  diverse  cheare, 

1  shall  begin  to  loath  our  Cramie  here. 

2. 

Tell  mc  not  how  the  waves  appcare 
Of  Cam,  or  how  it  cuts  the  Itarned  shiert, 

I  shall  contemne  the  troubled  Thamn, 
On  her  chicfc  Ha/iday,  even  when  her  streames, 

Are  with  rich  folly  guiided,  when 

The  quondam  Dungboat  is  made  gay, 

Just  like  the  bravery  of  the  men, 

And  graces  with  fresh  paint  that  day: 
When  th'  Citie  shines  with  Flagga  and  Fagtanis  there. 
And  Sattin  Doublets,  seen  not  twice  a  yeere. 

3- 

Why  doe  I  slay  then  f   I  would  meet 
Thee  there,  but  plummet!  hang  upon  my  feet: 

'Tis  my  chicfc  wish  to  live  with  thee, 
But  not  till  I  deserve  thy  company: 

Till  then  wee'l  scorne  to  let  that  toy. 

Some  forty  miles,  divide  our  hearts : 

Write  to  me,  and  I  shall  enjoy, 

Fritndthip,  and  «/(>,  thy  better  parts. 
Though  envious  Fortune  larger  hindrance  brings, 
Wce'l  easely  see  each  other,  Lne  hath  wings, 

FINIS. 


66 


LOVES 
RIDDLE. 

A   PASTORALL 

COMiEDIEj 

Written, 

At  the  time  of  his  being 

Kings  SchoUer  in  West- 
minster Schoole, 

by  A.  Cowlty. 


London, 

Printed  by  yobn  Dawson,  for  Henry 

Seile,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  Tygres 

head  in  Fleet-street  over  against 

St.  Dunstans-Chxxrch.     1638. 


"r 


To  the  truly  Worthy,  and 
Noble,  Sir  Kenelme 

DiGBIE 

Knight. 

THis  latter  Age^  the  Lees  of  Tinu^  bath  kiownfy 
FeWj  that  have  made  both  Pallas  arts  their  owne. 
But  jouj  Gnat  Sir^  two  Lawrels  weare^  and  are 
yictorious  in  Peace^  as  well  as  War. 
Learning  by  right  of  Conquest  is  your  owne^ 
And  every  liherall  Art  your  Captive  growne. 
As  if  neglected  Science  (for  it  now 
Wants  some  defenders)  fled  for  help  to  you. 
Whom  I  must  follaWy  and  let  this  for  mee 
An  earnest  of  my  future  service  bee. 
Which  I  should  feare  to  send  you^  did  I  know 
Your  judgement  onely^  not  your  Candor  too. 
For  fwas  a  Worke^  stolne  (though  you*le  Justly  call 
This  Play^  as  fond  as  those)  from  Catj  or  Ball, 
Had  it  beene  written  since^  1  should^  I  feare^ 
Scarse  have  abstained  from  a  Philosopher, 
Which  by  Tradition  here  is  thought  to  bee^ 
A  necessarie  Part  in  Comedie, 
Nor  need  I  tell  you  this ;  each  line  of  it 
Betrafs  the  Time  and  Place  wherein  t*was  writ. 
And  I  could  wishy  that  I  might  safely  say 
To  tVReadery  that  fwas  done  but  tVother  day. 
Yet  *tis  not  stuffed  with  names  of  Godsy  hard  wordsy 
Such  as  the  Aietamorphosis  affords. 
Nor  haCt  a  part  for  Robmson^  whom  they 
At  schooUy  account  essentiall  to  a  Play, 


\^  The  stile  is  loWy  such  as  you^le  easily  take 
^  J  For  what  a  Swaine  might  speake^  and  a  Boy  make. 
Take  ity  as  early  fruitSy  which  rare  appeare 
Though  not  halfe  ripey  but  worst  of  all  the  yeare. 
And  if  it  please  your  tasty  my  Muse  will  sayy 
The  birch  which  crowned  her  theny  is  growne  a  Bay, 

Yours  in  all  observance, 

A.  COWLEY. 


69 


The  Sc(Bne  Sicily. 

The  Aftors  names. 

o/^  .  /  I  ^^^  qJj  f^ij^g  Q^  j^  Noble  family. 
bpodata   J  ' 

r»  irj      r  their  Children. 
Ca/itaora) 

jA^       r  two  Gent,  both  in  love  with  Callidora, 
Aphron  J 

Clarianay  sister  to  Phtlistus. 


Melarnui 

Truga 

Hylace 


a  crabbed  old  Shepheard. 
his  Wife, 
their  Daughter. 

Mgon — an  ancient  Countrey  man. 

Bellula — his  supposed  Daughter. 

Palamon — a  young  Swaine  in  love  with  Hjlaa. 

Alupis — a  merry  Shepheard. 

Clariand^s  Mayd. 


A6Kis  I.     Scaena  I. 


Enter  Callidora  disguised  in  mans  apparelL 

MAdde  feet,  yce  have  beene  traytours  to  your  Master: 
Where  have  you  lead  me?   sure  my  truant  mind 
Hath  tai^ht  my  body  thus  to  wander  too ; 
Faintnesse  and  feare  surprize  me ;   Yee  just  gods, 
If  yee  have  brought  me  to  this  place  to  scourge 
The  folly  of  my  love,  (I  might  say  madnesse) 
Dispatch  me  quickly;   send  some  pittying  men 
Or  cruell  beast  to  nnd  me ;   let  me  bee 
Fed  by  the  one,  or  let  mee  feed  the  other. 
Why  are  these  trees  so  brave  ?   why  doe  they  weare 
Such  greene  and  fresh  apparell  ?   how  they  smile ! 
How  their  proud  toppes  play  with  the  courting  wind !   ' 
Can  they  behold  me  pine  and  languish  here, 
And  yet  not  sympathize  at  all  in  mourning? 
Doe  they  upbraid  my  sorrowes?   can  it  bee 
That  these  thick  branches  never  scene  before 
But  by  the  Sunne,  should  learne  so  much  of  man  ? 
The  trees  in  Courtiers  gardens,  which  are  conscious 
Of  their  guilt  Masters  statelinesse  and  pride. 
Themselves  would  pitty  me  ;   yet  these — Who's  there  ? 

Enter  Alupis  singing. 

I. 

Rise  up  thou  mournfull  Swainty 

For  *tis  hut  a  folly 

To  be  melancholy 
And  get  thee  thy  pipe  againe, 

2. 

Conu  sing  away  the  day^ 

For  'tis  hut  a  folly 

To  be  melancholfyy^ 
Let's  live  here  whilst  wee  may, 

71 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

CaL     I  marry  Sir,  this  fellow  hath  some  fire  in  him, 
Me  thinkes  a  sad  and  drowsie  shepheard  is 
A  prodigie  in  Nature,  for  the  woods 
Should  bee  as  farre  from  sorrow,  as  they  are 
From  sorrowes  causes,  riches  and  the  like. 
Haile  to  you  swaine,  I  am  a  Gentleman 
Driven  here  by  ignorance  of  the  way,  and  would 
Confesse  my  selfe  bound  to  you  for  a  curtesie. 
If  you  would  please  to  helpe  me  to  some  lodging 
Where  I  may  rest  my  selfe. 

Alu,     For  'tis  hut  a  folly^  &c. 

CaL     Well  j   if  the  rest  bee  like  this  fellow  here ; 
Then  I  have  travel'd  fairely  now  ;    for  certainly 
This  is  a  land  of  fooles ;   some  Colon ie 
Of  elder  brothers  have  becne  planted  here. 
And  begot  this  faire  generation. 
Prithee,  good  Shepheard,  tell  mee  where  thou  dwelst? 

Alu,     For  *tis  hut  a  folly^  6cc. 

Call.     Why  art  thou  madde? 

Alu.     What  if  I  bee  ? 
I  hope  'tis  no  discredit  for  me  Sir  ? 
For  in  this  age  who  is  not  ?     Tie  prove  it  to  you, 
Your  Citizen  hee's  madde  to  trust  the  Gentleman 
Both  with  his  wares  and  wife.     Your  Courtier 
Hee's  madde  to  spend  his  time  in  studying  postures, 
Cringes,  and  fashions,  and  new  complements ; 
Your  Lawyer  hee's  madde  to  sell  away 
His  tongue  for  money,  and  his  Client  madder 
To  buy  it  of  him,  since  'tis  of  no  use 
But  to  undoe  men,  and  the  Latine  tongue ; 
Your  Schollers  they  are  madde  to  breake  their  braines. 
Out-watch  the  Moone,  and  looke  more  pale  then  shee, 
That  so  when  all  the  Arts  call  him  their  Master, 
Hee  may  perhaps  get  some  small  Vicaridge, 
Or  be  the  Usher  of  a  Schoole;    but  there's 
A  thing  in  blacke  called  Poet,  who  is  ten 
Degrees  in  madnesse  above  these;    his  meanes 
Is  what  the  gentle  Fates  please  to  allow  him 
By  the  death  or  mariage  of  some  mighty  Lord, 
Which  hee  must  solemnize  with  a  new  song. 

72 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

CaL    This  feUowes  wit  amazeth  me ;   but  friend, 
What  doe  you  thinke  of  lovers  ? 

Abi.     Worst  of  all ; 
Is't  not  a  pretty  folly  to  stand  thus, 
And  sigh,  and  fold  the  armes,  and  cry  my  Cctlia^ 
My  soule,  my  life,  my  Calia^  then  to  wring 
Ones  state  for  present  and  ones  brayne  for  Sonnets? 

0  !  'tis  beyond  the  name  of  Phrenzie. 

CaL     What  so  Satyricke  Shephea[r]ds  ?     I  beleeve 
You  did  not  leame  these  flashes  in  the  Woods ; 
How  is  it  possible  that  you  should  get 
Such  neere  acquaintance  with  the  Citie  manners. 
And  yet  live  here  in  such  a  silent  place, 
Where  one  would  thinke  the  very  name  of  City 
Could  hardly  Enter. 

Abi.    Why,  rie  teU  you  Sir : 
My  father  dyed,  (you  force  me  to  remember 
A  griefe  that  deserves  teares)  and  left  me  young. 
And  (if  a  Shepheard  may  be  said  so)  rich, 

1  in  an  itching  wantonnesse  to  see 

What  other  Swaines  so  wondred  at,  the  Citie, 
Streight  sold  my  rurall  portion  (for  the  wealth 
Of  Shepheards  is  their  flockes)  and  thither  went, 
Where  whil'st  my  money  lasted  I  was  welcome. 
And  liv'd  in  credit,  but  when  that  was  gone. 
And  the  last  piece  sigh'd  in  my  empty  pocket, 
I  was  contemn'd,  then  I  began  to  feele 
How  dearely  I  had  bought  experience. 
And  without  any  thing  besides  repentance 
To  load  me,  returnM  back,  and  here  I  live 
To  laugh  at  all  those  follyes  which  I  saw. 

Song. 

The  merry  waves  dance  up  and  downe^  and  play^ 

Sport  is  granted  to  the  Sea, 
Birds  are  the  queristers  of  th^ empty  ayrey 

Sport  is  never  wanting  there. 
The  ground  doth  smile  at  the  Springs  flowry  birthy 

Sport  is  granted  to  the  earth. 

73 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

The  fire  it's  cheering  flami  on  high  dtth  reari^ 

Spert  is  nevtr  wanting  there. 
If  all  the  elements,  the  Earth,  the  Sea, 

Ayre,  and  fire,  w  merry  hee ; 
Why  is  mam  mirth  so  seldtme,  and  st  small, 

IVha  is  compounded  of  them  all  ? 

Cal,     You  may  rcjoyce ;   but  sighes  befit  me  better. 

Alu.     Now  on  my  conscience  thou  hast  lost  a  Mistris ; 
If  it  be  so,  thanke  God,  and  love  no  more  ; 
Or  else  perhaps  she'has  burnt  your  whining  letter, 
Or  kist  another  Gentleman  in  your  sight, 
Or  else  denyed  you  her  glove,  or  taught  at  you, 
Causes  indeed,  which  deserve  speciall  mourning, 
And  now  you  come  to  talke  with  your  God  Cupid 
In  private  here,  and  call  the  Woods  to  witnesse. 
And  all  the  streames  which  murmure  when  they  hearc 
The  injuries  they  suffer;   I  am  sorry 
I  have  been  a  hindrance  to  your  meditations. 
Farewell  Sir. 

Cal.     Nay,  good  Shepheard,  you  misuke  mee. 

Alu.     Faith,  I  am  very  chary  of  my  health, 
I  would  be  loath  to  be  infected  Sir. 

Cal.    Thou  needest  not  fcarc ;    I  have  no  disease  at  all 
Besides  a  troubled  mind. 

Alu.     Why  that's  the  worst,  the  worst  of  all. 

Cal.     And  therefore  it  doth  challenge 
Your  piety  the  more,  you  should  the  rather, 
Strive  to  be  my  Physitian. 

Alu,     The  good  Gods  forbid  it  j   I  turne  Physitian  ? 
My  Parents  brought  me  up  more  piously, 
Then  that  I  should  play  booty  with  a  sicknessc, 
Turne  a  consumption  to  mens  purses,  and 
Purge  them,  worse  then  their  bodyes,  and  set  up 
An  Apothecaries  shop  in  private  chambers. 
Live  by  revenew  of  close^stooles  and  urinals, 
Deferre  off  sick  mens  health  from  dav  to  day 
As  if  they  went  to  law  with  their  disease. 
No,  I  was  borne  for  better  ends,  then  to  send  away 
His  Majesties  subjects  to  hell  so  ^t, 
74 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

As  if  I  were  to  share  the  stakes  with  Charon. 

Cat     Your  wit  erres  much : 
For  as  the  soule  is  nobler  then  the  body, 
So  it's  corruption  askes  a  better  medicine 
Then  is  applyed  to  Gouts,  Catarrs,  or  Agues, 
And  that  is  counselL 

jfbi.    So  then:    I  should  bee 
Your  soules  Physitian ;   why,  I  could  talke  out 
An  houre  or  so,  but  then  I  want  a  cushion 
To  thump  my  precepts  into;   but  tell  me  'pray. 
What  name  besures  your  disease? 

Cat.     A  feaver,  shepheard,  but  so  farre  above 
An  outward  one,  that  the  vicissitudes 
Of  that  may  seeme  but  warmth,  and  coolenesse  only ; 
This,  flame,  and  frost. 

jfbt.     So;   I  understand  you. 
You  are  a  lover,  which  is  by  translation 
A  fbole,  or  a  beast,  for  I'le  define  you ;  you're 
Partly  CbanueUon^  partly  Salamander^ 
You're  fed  by  th'ayre,  and  live  i'the  fire. 

CaL     Why  did  you  never  love  ?    have  you  no  softnesse. 
Nought  of  your  mother  in  you  ?    if  that  Sun 
Which  scorched  me,  should  cast  one  beame  upon  you, 
T'would  quickly  melt  the  ice  about  your  heart. 
And  lend  your  eyes  fresh  streames. 

Alu.     Faith,  I  thinke  not; 
I  have  seen  all  your  beautyes  of  the  Court, 
And  yet  was  never  ravisht,  never  made 
A  dolefiill  Sonnet  unto  angry  Cupidy 
Either  to  warme  her  heart,  or  else  coole  mine, 
And  no  fiure  yet  could  ever  wound  me  so. 
But  that  I  quickly  found  a  remedie. 

CaL     That  were  an  art  worth  learning,  and  you  need  not 
Be  niggard  of  your  knowledge ;    See  the  Sunne 
Though  it  have  given  this  many  thousand  yeares 
Light  to  the  world,  yet  is  as  bigge  and  bright 
As  e're  it  was,  and  hath  not  lost  one  beame 
Of  his  first  glory ;  then  let  charity 
Perswade  you  to  instruct  me,  I  shall  bee 
A  very  thankfull  schoUer. 

75 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Alu,     I  shall :  for  'tis  both  easily  taught  and  learn'd, 

Come  sing  away  the  day^  &c. 
Mirth  is  the  only  physick. 

CaL     It  is  a  way  which  I  have  much  desired 
To  cheate  my  sorrow  with ;   and  for  that  purpose 
Would  faine  turne  shepheard,  and  in  rural  sports 
Weare  my  lifes  renmant  out ;   I  would  forget 
All  things,  my  very  name  if  it  were  possible. 

Alu.    Pray  let  me  learne  it  first. 

Cal,     'Tis  Callidorus. 

Alu,     Thanke  you;    if  you  your  selfe  chance  to  forget  it 
Come  but  to  me  Tie  doe  you  the  same  curtesie. 
In  the  meane  while  make  me  your  servant  Sir, 
I  will  instruct  you  in  things  necessary 
For  the  creation  of  a  Shepheard,  and 
Wee  two  will  laugh  at  all  the  world  securely, 
And  fling  jests  'gainst  the  businesses  of  state 
Without  endangering  our  eares. 

Comey  come  away^ 

For  Uis  but  a  folly 

To  he  melancholyy 
Let's  live  here  whiVst  we  may.  Exeunt, 

Enter  Palamony  Melarnus^  Truga^  Mgon 

Bellulay  Hylace. 

Pa,     I  see  I  am  undone. 

Mel,  Come  no  matter  for  that,  you  love  my  Daughter? 
By  Pan  ;  but  come,  no  matter  for  that ;  you  my  Hilace  ? 

Tru,  Nay  good  Duck,  doe  not  vexe  your  selfe ;  what 
though  he  loves  her  ?  you  know  she  will  not  have  him. 

Mel,  Come,  no  matter  for  that ;  I  will  vex  my  selfe,  and 
vex  him  too,  shall  such  an  idle  fellow  as  he  strive  to  entice 
away  honest  mens  children  ?  let  him  goe  feed  his  flocks ;  but 
alas  1  he  has  none  to  trouble  him ;  ha,  ha,  ha,  yet  hee  would 
marry  my  daughter. 

Pa,     Thou  art  a  malicious  doting  man, 
And  one  who  cannot  boast  of  any  thing 
But  that  shee  calls  thee  father,  though  I  cannot 

76 


LOVES    RIDDLE 


Number  so  large  a  flock  of  sheepe  as  thou. 
Nor  send  so  many  cheeses  to  the  City, 
Yet  in  my  mind  I  am  an  Empcrour 
If  but  compar'd  with  thee. 

Tru.     Of  what  place  I   pray  ? 
'Tis  of  some  new  discovered  Countrey,  is't  not? 

Pa.     Prithee  good  ffintor  if  ihou  wilt  be  tailcing, 
Kecpe  thy  breath   in  a  little,  for  it  smelb 
Worse  then  a  Goat ;    yet  thou  must  taike, 
For  thou  hast  nothing  left  ihec  of  a  woman 
But  lust,  and  tongue. 

Hy/.     Shepheard,  here's  none  so  txken  with  your  wit 
But  you  might  spare  it ;    if  you   be  so  lavish, 
You'lc  have  none  left  another  time  to  make 
The  song  of  tlie  forsaken  Lover  with. 

Pa.     Tme  dumbe,  my  lips  arc  seal'd,  seal'd  up  for  ever 
May  my  rash  tong;ue  forget  to  be  interpreter. 
And  organ  of  my  senses,  if  you  say, 
It  bath  offended  you. 

Hy/.     Troth  if  you  make 
Bui  that  condition,  I  shall  agree   to't  quickly: 

Mt/.     By  Pan  well  said  Girle  ;    what  a  foole  was  I 
To  suspeit  thee  of  loving  him?    but  come 
Tis  no  matter  for  that ;   when  e're  thou  art  maried 
ric  adde  ten  sheepe  more  to  thy  portion. 
For  putting  this  one  Jest  upon  him. 

Mgen.     Nay  now  1  must  needs  tell  you  that  your  anger 
Is  grounded  with  no  reason  to  niainiaine  it, 
Ir  you  intend  your  daughter  shall  not  marry  htm, 
Say  so,  but  play  not  with  his  passion, 
For  'tis  inhumane  wit  which  jeeres  the  wretched. 

MtL     Come    'tis    no    matter     for    that ;     what    I    doe,    I 
doe; 
I  shall  not  need  your  counsell. 

Tru.     I  hope  my  husband  and  I  have  enough  wisdomc 
To  governe  our  owne  child  ;    if  wc  want  any 
Twill  be  to  little  purpose,  I  dare  say, 
To  come  to  borrow  some  of  you. 

£g.     'Tis  very  likely  pritty  Mistris  MauHit, 
You  with  a  face  lookcs  like  a  winter  apple 

I  77 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

When  'tis  shrunke  up  together  and  halfe  rotten, 
rde  see  you  hang'd  up  for  a  thing  to  skare 
The  Crowes  away  before  He  spend  my  breath 
To  teach  you  any. 

HyL     Alas  good  shepheard  ! 
What  doe  you  imagine  that  I  should  love  you  for? 

PaL     For  all  my  services,  the  vertuous  zeale 
And  constancie  with  which  I  ever  woed  you, 
Though  I  were  blacker  then  a  starlesse  night. 
Or  consciences  where  guilt  and  horror  dwell. 
Although  splay-legd,  crooked,  deform*d  in  all  parts, 
And  but  the  Chao*s  only  of  a  man  ; 
Yet  if  I  love  and  honor  you,  humanitie 
Would  teach  you  not  to  hate,  or  laugh  at  me. 

Hy.     Pray  spare  your  fine  perswasions,  and  set  speeches. 
And  rather  tell  them  to  those  stones  and  trees, 
'Twill  be  to  as  good  purpose  quite,  as  when 
You  spend  them  upon  me. 

Pa.     Give  me  my  finall  answer,  that  I  may 
Bee  either  blest  for  ever,  or  die  quickly ; 
Delay's  a  cruell  rack,  and  kils  by  piece-meales. 

Hy,     Then  here  'tis,  you're  an  asse, 
(Take  that  for  your  incivilitie  to  my  mother) 
And  I  will  never  love  you. 

PaL     You're  a  woman ; 
A  cruell  and  fond  woman,  and  my  passion 
Shall  trouble  you  no  more,  but  when  I'me  dead 
My  angry  Ghost  shall  vex  you  worse  then  now 
Your  pride  doth  mee.  Farewell. 

Enter  Aphron  madde^  meeting  Palaemon  going  mt. 

Aph.     Nay  stay  Sir,  have  you  found  her  f 

Pa,     How  now?   whats  the  matter? 

Aph,     For  I  will  have  her  out  of  you,  or  else 
I'le  cut  thee  into  atomes,  til  the  wind 
Play  with  the  threeds  of  thy  torne  body.     Looke  her 
Or  I  will  do't. 

PaL     Whom  ;  or  where  ? 

Aph.    rie  tell  thee  honest  fellow  \  thou  shalt  goe 

78 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

From  me  as  an  Embassador  to  the  Sunne, 
(For  men  call  him  the  eye  of  heaven,  from  which 
Nothing  lyes  hid)  and  tell  him — doe  you  marke  me — tell  him 
From  me — that  if  he  send  not  word  where  shee  is  gone, 
— ^I  will — ^nay  by  the  Gods  I  will. 

iC^.     Alas  poore  Gentleman  ! 
Sure  he  hath  lost  some  Mistris ;  beautious  women 
Are  the  chiefe  plagues  to  men. 

Trv.     Nay,  not  so  shepheard,  when  did  I  plague  any.^ 

JEpn.     How  hxxt  is  he  beyond  the  name  of  slave, 
That  makes  his  love  his  Mistris? 

Apb,     Mistris?  who's  that?  her  Ghost?  'tis  shee; 
It  was  her  voyce;  were  all  the  flouds,  the  rivers. 
And  seas  that  with  their  crooked  armes  embrace 
The  earth  betwixt  us,  I'de  wade  through  and  meet  her. 
Were  all  the  Alpes  heap'd  on  each  others  head. 
Were  PtUon  joyn'd  to  Oaa^  and  they  both 
Throwne  on  Olympus  top,  they  should  not  make 
So  high  a  wall,  but  I  would  scal't  and  find  her. 

Bel,     Unhappy  man. 

Aph.     Tis  empty  ayre :   I  was  too  rude,  too  saucy. 
And  she  hath  left  me ;   if  shee  be  alive 
What  darknesse  shall  be  thicke  enough  to  hide  her? 
If  dead,  I'le  seeke  the  place  which  Poets  call  Elizium^ 
Where  all  the  soules  of  good  and  vertuous  mortalls 
Enjoy  deserved  pleasures  after  death. 
What  shovdd  I  feare  ?   if  there  be  an  Erynnis 
Tis  in  this  brest,  if  a  Tisiphone 
'Tis  here,  here  in  this  braine  are  all  her  serpents; 
My  griefe  and  fury  armes  me. 

PaL     By  your  leave  Sir. 

Apb.     Now  by  the  Gods,  that  man  that  stops  my  journey 
Had  better  have  provokt  a  hungry  Lionesse 
Rob'd  of  her  Whelpes,  or  set  his  naked  brest 
Against  the  Thunder.  Exit  Aphron, 

Tru.     'Tis  well  hee's  gone, 
I  never  could  endure  to  see  these  madde  men. 

Afel.     Come  no  matter  for  that  Enter  Alupis 

For  now  he's  gone,  here  comes  another.  and  Callidorus 

But  it's  no  matter  for  that  neither, 

79 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

How  now?  who  has  hee  brought  with  him? 

AL     Hayle  to  yee  Shepheards,  and  yee  beautious  Nymphs, 
I  must  present  this  stranger  to  your  knowledge, 
When  you*re  acquainted  well,  you'le  thanke  me  for't 

Cat.     Blest  Masters  of  these  Woods,  hayle  to  you  al[l], 
'Tis  my  desire  to  be  your  neighbour  here; 
And  feed  my  flocks  (such  as  they  are)  neere  yours, 
This  Shepheard  tels  me,  that  your  gentle  nature 
Will  be  most  willing  to  accept  my  friendship ; 
Which  if  yee  doe,  may  all  the  Sylvan  Deitycs 
Bee  still  propitious  to  you,  may  your  flocks 
Yearely  increase  above  your  hopes  or  wishes; 
May  none  of  your  young  lambcs  become  a  prey 
To  the  rude  Wolfe,  but  play  about  securely ; 
May  dearths  be  ever  exilM  from  these  woods. 
May  your  fruits  prosper,  and  your  mountaine  strawberyes 
Grow  in  abundance,  may  no  Lovers  be 
Despis'd,  and  pine  away  their  yeares  of  spring : 
But  the  young  men  and  maides  be  strucken  both 
With  equall  sympathy. 

Pa,     That  were  a  golden  time;  the  Gods  forbid 
Mortal  Is  to  bee  so  happy. 

Mgon,     I  thanke  you;  and  we  wish  no  lesse  to  you: 
You  are  most  welcome  hither. 

Tru.     'Tis  a  handsome  man, 
rie  be  acquainted  with  him;   we  most  heartily 
Accept  your  company. 

Mel.     Come  no  matter  for  that;    we  have  enough 
Already  who  can  bcare  us  company. 
But  no  matter  for  that  neither;   wee  shall  have 
Shortly  no  roome  left  us  to  feed  our  flockes 
By  one  another. 

Alup.     What  alwayes  grumbling? 
Your  father  and  your  mother  scoulded  sure 
Whil'st  you  were  getting ;    well,  if  I  begin 
rie  so  abuse  thee,  and  that  publiquely. 

Mel,     A  rott  upon  you;   you  must  still  be  humoured. 
But  come,  no  matter  for  that ;   you're  welcome  then. 

A  I,     What,  beauties,  are  you  silent  ? 
Take  notice  of  him,  (pray)  your  speaking  is 

80 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

Worth  more  then  all  the  rest. 

Bill,     You'n  very  welcome. 

Cal.     Tlumke  you  bjTc  Nymph,  this  is  indeed  a  welcome. 

Btil.    I  never  saw,  beauty  and  afi&bility  (Salutes  her. 

So  well  conjoyn'd  before  j   if  I  stay  long 
I  shall  be  quite  undone. 

^ii.     Nay  come,  put  on  too. 

HjL     You  are  most  kindly  welcome. 

Cal.     You  blesse  mee  too  much ; 
The  honour  of  your  lip  is  entertainment 
Princes  might  wish  for. 

Hyl.     Blesse  me  how  hee  lookes ! 
And  how  he  talkes;   his  ktsse  was  honey  too, 
His  lips  as  red  and  sweet  as  early  cherryes, 
Softer  then  Bevcrs  skins. 

Bel.     Blesse  roe  how  I  envy  her ! 
Would  I  had  had  that  kisse  too ! 

Hji.     How  his  eye  shines  I  what  a  bright  flame  it  shootes  1 

Bel.     How  red  his  cheekes  are  I    so  our  garden  apples 
Looke  on  that  side  where  the  hot  Sun  salutes  them. 

Hyl.     How  well  his  haires  become  him  ! 
Just  like  that  starre  which  ushers  on  the  day. 

Be/l.     How  fiiire  he  is !    fotrer  then  whitest  blossomes. 

Trug.    They  two  have  got  a  kisse ; 
Why  should  I  lose  it  for  want  of  spring  i 
You're  welcome  shepheard. 

j/Ai.     Come  on  :    For  'til  but  a  filly,  &c. 

7ru.     Doe  you  hcare,  you  are  welcome. 

Aht.     Oh  I   here's  another  must  have  a  kisse : 

TVb.     Goc  you're  a  paltry  knave,  I,  that  you  are, 
To  wrong  an  ho[n]est  woman  thus. 

Aht.     Why  hee  shall  kisse  thee,  never  feare  it,  alas  I 
I  did  but  jest,  he'Ie  do't  for  all  this, 
Nay,  because  I  will  be  a  Patron  to  thee 
rie  speake  to  him. 

Tru.     You're  a  slandering  knave, 
And  you  shall  know't,  that  you  shall. 

Al.     Nay,  if  you  scould  so  lowd 
Others  shul  know  it  too ;    He  must  stop  your  mouth. 
Or  you'le  talke  on  this  three  houres ;   CalUdarut 

c.  II.  p  8i 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

If  you  can  patiently  endure  a  stinke, 
Or  hare  frequenCea  ere  the  City  Beare-garden, 
Prithee  salute  this  fourescore  yearcs,  and  free  me, 
She  sayes  you're  welcome  too. 

Cal.     I  cry  you  mercy  Shepheardessc, 
By  Pan  I  did  not  see  you. 

Tru.     If  my  husband  and  Alupis  were  not  here 
I'de  rather  pay  him  back  his  kissc  againe, 
Then  be  beholding  to  him. 

Al.     What,  thou  hast  don't  ? 
Well  if  thou  dost  not  dye  upon't,  hereafter, 
Thy  body  will  agree  even  with  the  worst 
And  stinking'st  ayre  in  Europe. 

Cal.     Nay,  be  not  angry  Shepheardesse,  you  know 
He  doth  but  jest  as  'tis  his  custome. 

Tru.     I  know  it  is  his  custome ;   he  was  alwayes 
Wont  to  abuse  me,  like  a  knave  as  he  is, 
But  I'lc  endure't  no  more. 

AL  Prithee  good  Callidorui  if  her  breath 
Be  not  too  bad,  goe  stop  her  mouth  againe, 
Shc'lc  scould  till  night  else. 

Tru.     Yes  marry  will  I,  that  I  will,  you  rascall  you» 
I'le  teach  you  to  lay  your  frumps  upon  mc ; 
You  delight  in  it,  doe  you  P 

Ai.     Prithee  be  quiet,  leave  but  talking  to  me 
And  I  will  never  jeere  thee  any  more, 
We  two  will  be  so  peaceable  hereafter. 

Tru.     Well  upon  that  condition. 

Ai.     So,  I'mc  dcliver'd,  why  how  now  Ladds? 
What  have  you  lost  your  tongues?  lie  have  them  cry'd, 
Palamen,  Aigon,  Callidarui,  what  ? 
Are  you  all  dumbe  ?   I  pray  continue  so, 
And  i'le  be  merry  with  my  sclfe. 

Song. 
'T7i  better  to  dance  then  ting. 
The  cause  is  if  you  will  know  it. 
That  I  to  my  selft  shall  bring 

A  Poverty 

Viluntary 
If  ena  I  grow  but  a  Poet, 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Mgtn.     And  vet  me  thinkcs  you  sing, 

AL     O  yes,  because  here's  none  doe  dance, 
And  both  are  better  farre  then  to  be  sad. 

£^H.     Come  then  let's  have  a  round. 

AL     A  match ;   Palamen  whither  goe  you  ? 

Pa,    The  Gods  forbid  that  I  should  mock  my  sclfe, 
Cheate  my  owne  mind,  I  dance  and  weepe  at  once  f 
You  may:   Farewell.  Exit. 

Al.     'TIS  such  a  whining  ibole ;   come,  come,  Milarmu. 

Mtl.    I  have  no  mind  to  dance ;  but  come  no  matter  for 
that,  rather  then  breake  the  squares. — 

Cat.     By  your  leave,  foyre  one. 

Hil.    Would  I  were  in  her  place. 

Al.     Come  Hi/ace,  thee  and  I  wench  I  warrant  thee. 
You  and  your  wife  together.     God  blcsse  you  j   so — 

F»r  'tit  hit  a  filly,  &c.  Dana. 

7ru.    So  there's  enough,  I'me  halfe  a  weary, 

Mtl.     Come  no  matter  for  that, 
I  have  not  danc't  so  much  this  yeare. 

Al.     So  farewell,  you'le  come  along  with  me  i 

Cal.     Yes,  iarewell  gentle  Swaines. 

Tni,     Farewell  good  Shcpheard, 

StL     Your  best  wishes  follow  you. 

HyL     Pan  alwayes  guide  you. 

MtL    It's  no  matter  for  that,  come  away.  Exeunt, 

Finis  ASus  prim. 


Aftus  II.     Scaena  I. 


Enter  Demtfhi/f  Spadaia,  Philiitut^  Clariana. 

DEma.     Nay,  shee  is  lost  for  ever,  and  her  name 
Which  us'd  to  be  so  comfortable,  now 
Is  poyson  to  our  thoughts,  and  to  augment 
Our  misery  paints  forth  our  former  happinesse, 

0  Call'tdora,  O  my  Callidora  I 

1  shall  ne're  sec  thee  more. 
Spo.     If  cursed  Aphron 

Hath  carycd  her  away,  and  tryumphs  now 
In  the  destruction  of  our  hoary  age 
'Twere  better  shcc  were  dead  ; 

Dtm.     'Twere  better  we  were  all  dead  j   the  enjoying 
Of  tedious  life  is  a  worse  punishment 
Then  losing  of  my  Daughter ;   Oh  !   my  friends, 
Why  have  I  lived  so  long  f 

Cla,     Good  Sir  be  comforted :   Brother  spcake  to  them. 

Spo.     Would  I  had  dyed,  when  first  I  brought  thee  forth 
My  Girle,  my  best  Girle,  then  I  should  have  slept 
In  quiet,  and  not  wept  now. 

Phi.     I  am  halfe  a  statue 
Freeze  me  up  quite  yee  Gods,  and  let  me  be 
My  owne  sad  monument. 

Cla.     Alas  !   you  doe  but  hurt  your  selves  with  weeping ; 
Consider  pray,  it  may  be  she'le  come  back, 

Dem.     Oh  \   never,  never,  'tis  impossible 
As  to  call  baclc  sixteene,  and  with  vaine  Rhetoricke 
Pcrswade  my  lifes  fresh  Aprill  to  returne, 
Shee's  dead,  or  else  farre  worse,  kept  up  by  Apbrtn 
Whom  if  I  could  but  see,  me  thinkes  new  bloud 
Would  creepe  into  my  veines,  and  my  faint  sinewes 
Renew  themselves,  I  doubt  not  but  to  find 
Strength  enough  yet  to  be  revcng'd  of  Aphron. 

Sp.     Would  I  were  with  thee,  Girle,  where  ere  thou  an. 

84 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Cla.    For  shame  good  Brother,  see  if  you  can  comfort  them, 
Me  thinkes  you  should  say  something. 

Phi.     Doe  you  thinke 
My  griefes  so  h'ght  ?  or  was  the  interest 
So  small  which  I  had  in  her?   I  a  comforter? 
Alas !  she  was  my  wife,  for  we  were  married 
In  our  aficction,  in  our  vowes ;  and  nothing 
Stopt  the  enjoying  of  each  other,  but 
The  thinne  partition  of  some  ceremonies. 
I  lost  my  hopes,  my  expectations. 
My  joyes,  nay  more,  I  lost  my  selfe  with  her; 
You  have  a  son,  yet  left  behind,  whose  memorie 
May  sweeten  all  this  gall. 

Spo.     I,  we  had  one. 
But  fate's  so  cruell  to  us,  and  such  dangers 
Attend  a  travelling  man,  that  'twere  presumption 
To  say  we  have  him ;  we  have  sent  for  him 
To  blot  out  the  remembrance  of  his  sister : 
But  whether  we  shall  ever  see  him  here, 
The  Gods  can  only  tell,  we  barely  hope. 

Dem,     This  newes,  alas  ! 
Will  be  but  a  sad  welcome  to  him. 

Phi.     Why  doe  I  play  thus  with  my  misery  ? 
'TIS  vaine  to  thinke  I  can  live  here  without  her, 
lie  seeke  her  where  e're  she  is ;   patience  in  this 
Would  be  a  vice,  and  men  might  justly  say 
My  love  was  but  a  flash  of  winged  lightning, 
And  not  a  Vestall  flame,  which  alwayes  shines. 
His  woing  is  a  complement,  not  passion. 
Who  can  if  fortune  snatch  away  his  Mistris, 
Spend  some  few  teares,  then  take  another  choyce. 
Mine  is  not  so;   Oh  Callidora! 

Cla.    Fye  Brother,  you're  a  man. 
And  should  not  be  shaken  with  every  wind. 
If  it  were  possible  to  call  her  back 
With  mourning,  mourning  were  a  piety, 
But  since  it  cannot,  you  must  give  me  leave 
To  call  it  folly : 

Phi.     So  it  is; 
And  I  will  therefore  shape  some  other  course, 

8s 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

This  dtdefiiU  place  shall  never  see  me  more, 

Vnlesse  it  see  her  too  in  my  embraces, 

You  sister  may  retyre  unto  my  Farme, 

Adjoyning  to  the  woods ; 

And  my  estate  I  leave  for  you  to  manage, 

If  I  find  her,  expe£t  me  there,  if  not 

Doe  you  live  happier  then  your  Brother  hath: 

C/a,     Alas !    how  can  I  if  you  leave  me  ?   but 
I  hope  your  resolutions  may  be  altered. 

P/>,  Never,  farewell :  good  Dertuphil, 
Farewell  Sp^daia,  temper  your  laments ; 
If  I  returne  we  shall  againe  be  happy. 

Spo.     You  shall  not  want  my  prayers, 

Dent.     The   Gods   that   pitty   Lovers   (if  there    bee  any) 
attend  upon  you. 

Cla.    Will  you  needs  goe  i 

Ph.     I  knit  delayes;   'twere  time  I  were  now  ready, 
And  I  shall  sinne  if  I  seeme  dull  or  slow 
In  any  thing  which  touches  Callidora. 

Dtm.    Oh  !  that  name  wounds  me ;  we'le  bearc  you  company 
A  little  way,  and  Clariana  looke 
To  see  us  often  at  your  Countrey  Farme, 
Wec'le  sigh,  and  grieve  together.  Extunt. 

EnUr  Alupis  and  Palzmon. 

Alu.      Came,  ame  away,  tec. 
Now  where  are  all  your  sonnets f   your  rare  fancies? 
Could  the  fine  morning  musick  which  you  wak'd 
Your  Mistris  with,  prevaile  no  more  then  thisi 
Why  in  the  Citie  now  your  very  Fidlers 
Good  morrow  to  your  worship,  will  get  something, 
Hath  she  denyed  thee  quite? 

Pa.     Shee  hath  undone  me ;   I  have  plow'd  the  Sea, 
And  begot  storming  billowes. 

/fl.      Can  no  perswasions  move  her  ? 

Pa.     No  more  then  thy  least  breath  can  stirre  an  oalce. 
Which  hath  this  many  yeares  scorn'd  the  fierce  warres 
Of  all  the  winds. 

/fl.     'Tis  a  good  hearing ;   then 
86 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

She*le  cost  vou  no  more  payres  of  Turtle  Doves, 

Nor  garlands  knit  with  amorous  conceits, 

I  doe  perceive  some  ragges  of  the  Court  fisishions 

Visibly  creeping  now  into  the  woods, 

The  more  hee  shewes  his  love,  the  more  shee  slights  him. 

Yet  will  take  any  gift  of  him,  as  willingly 

As  Coimtrev  Justices  the  Hens  and  Geese 

Of  their  ofiFending  neighbours ;   this  is  right ; 

Now  if  I  lov'd  this  wench  I  would  so  handle  her, 

Fde  teach  her  what  the  difference  were  betwixt 

One  who  had  seene  the  Court  and  Citie  tricks, 

And  a  meere  shepheard. 

Pa,     Lions  are  tam'd,  and  become  slaves  to  men. 
And  Tygres  oft  forget  the  cruelty 
They  suckt  from  their  fierce  mothers ;   but,  a  woman 
Ah  me  !  a  woman  ! — 

JL     Yet  if  I  saw  such  wonders  in  her  Bice 
As  you  doe,  I  should  never  doubt  to  win  her. 

Pa.     How  pray  ?    if  gifts  would  doe  it,  she  hath  had 
The  daintiest  Lambes,  the  hope  of  all  my  flock, 
I  let  my  apples  hang  for  her  to  gather, 
The  pamfull  Bee  did  never  load  my  hives. 
With  honey  which  she  tasted  not. 

AL     You  mistake  me  Friend ;   I  meane  not  so. 

Pa.     How  then  ?    if  Poetry  would  do't,  what  shade 
Hath  not  beene  Auditor  of  my  amorous  pipe? 
What  bankes  are  not  acquainted  with  her  prayses? 
Which  I  have  sung  in  verses,  and  the  sheepheards 
Say  they  are  good  ones,  nay  they  call  me  Poet, 
Although  I  am  not  easie  to  beleeve  them. 

AL     No,  no,  no ;   that's  not  the  way. 

Pa.     Why  how? 
If  shew  of  griefe  had  Rhetorick  enough 
To  move  her,  I  dare  sweare  she  had  beene  mine 
Long  before  this,  what  day  did  ere  peepe  forth 
In  which  I  wept  not  dulier  then  the  morning  ? 
Which  of  the  winds  hath  not  my  sighes  encreas'd 
At  sundry  times?   how  often  have  I  cryed 
Hjlaciy  tiylace^  till  the  docile  woods 
Have  answered  Hylace\   and  every  valley 

87 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

As  if  it  were  my  Rivall,  sounded  Hylace. 

AU     I,  and  you  were  a  most  rare  foole  for  doing  so, 
Why  'twas  that  poyson'd  ail ;    Had  I  a  Mistris 
I'de  almost  beat  her,  by  this  light,  I  would, 
For  they  are  much  about  your  Spaniels  nature, 
But  whilst  you  cry  deare  Hylace^  6  Hylace! 
Pitty  the  tortures  of  my  burning  heart, 
She  le  alwayes  mince  it,  like  a  Citizens  wife. 
At  the  first  asking ;   though  her  tickled  bloud 
Leapes  at  the  very  mention ;   therefore  now 
Leave  off  your  whining  tricks,  and  take  my  counselL 
First  then  be  merry  ;    For  *tis  hut  a  folly^  Sic, 

Pal,     'Tis  a  hard  lesson  for  my  mind  to  learne, 
But  I  would  force  my  selfe,  if  that  would  helpe  me  I 

Al,     Why  thou  shalt  see  it  will;  next  I  would  have  thee 
To  laugh  at  her,  and  mocke  her  pittifully ; 
Study  for  jeeres  against  next  time  you  see  her, 
rie  goe  along  with  you,  and  helpe  to  abuse  her, 
Till  we  have  made  her  cry,  worse  then  e're  you  did; 
When  we  have  us'd  her  thus  a  little  while, 
Shee*le  be  as  tame  and  gentle. — 

Pa,     But  alas ! 
This  will  provoke  her  more. 

AI,     He  warrant  thee :    besides,  what  if  it  should  ? 
She  hath  refus'd  you  utterly  already. 
And  cannot  hurt  you  worse ;   come,  come,  be  rul'd ; 
And  follow  me,  we*le  put  it  straight  in  pradtize. 
For  ^tis  hut  a  filfyj  Sec, 

Pa,     A  match  ;  He  try  alwayes ;  she  can  but  scorne  me, 
There  is  this  good  in  depth  of  misery 
That  men  may  attempt  any  thing,  they  know 
The  worst  before  hand.  Exeunt. 

Enter  Callidorus. 

How  happy  is  that  man,  who  in  these  woods 
With  secure  silence  weares  away  his  time  ! 
Who  is  acquainted  better  with  himselfe 
Then  others ;   who  so  great  a  stranger  is 
To  Citie  follyes,  that  he  knowes  them  not. 

88 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

He  sits  all  day  upon  some  mossie  hill 

His  rurall  throne,  arm'd  with  his  crooke,  his  scepter, 

A  flowry  garland  is  his  country  crowne ; 

The  gentle  launbes  and  sheepe  his  loyall  subjects, 

Which  every  yeare  pay  him  their  fleecy  tribute ; 

Thus  in  an  humble  statelinesse  and  majestic 

He  times  his  pipe,  the  woods  best  melody, 

And  is  at  once,  what  many  Monarches  are  not. 

Both  King  and  Poet.     I  could  eladly  wish 

To  spend  the  rest  of  my  unprontable, 

And  needlesse  dayes  in  their  innocuous  sports. 

But  then  my  Either,  mother,  and  my  brother 

Recurse  unto  my  thoughts,  and  straight  plucke  downe 

The  resolution  I  had  built  before ; 

Love  names  Phi/istus  to  me,  and  o*th'  sudden 

The  woods  seeme  base,  and  all  their  harmlesse  pleasures 

The  daughters  of  necessity,  not  vertue. 

Thus  with  my  selfe  I  wage  a  warre,  and  am 

To  my  owne  rest  a  traytor;   I  would  faine 

Goe  home,  but  still  the  thought  of  Aphron  frights  me. 

How  now  ?  who's  here  ?   6  'tis  faire  Hylace 

The  grumbling  shepheards  daughter.  Enter  Hylace. 

Brightest  of  all  those  starres  that  paint  the  woods. 

And  grace  these  shady  habitations. 

You're  welcome,  how  shall  I  requite  the  benefit 

Which  you  bestow  upon  so  poore  a  stranger 

With  your  faire  presence  ? 

HjL     If  it  be  any  curtesie,  'tis  one 
Which  I  would  gladly  doe  you,  I  have  brought 
A  rurall  present,  some  of  our  owne  apples. 
My  father  and  my  mother  are  so  hard, 
They  watch'd  the  tree,  or  else  they  had  beene  more. 
Such  as  they  are,  if  they  can  please  your  tast. 
My  wish  is  crown'd. 

Cal,     O  you're  too  kind, 
And  teach  that  duty  to  me  which  I  ought 
To  have  perform'd ;   I  would  I  could  returne 
The  halfe  of  your  deserts !    but  I  am  poore 
In  every  thing  but  thankes. 

Hj.     Your  acceptation  only  is  reward 

89 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Too  great  for  mc. 

Cal.     How  they  blush  ? 
A  man  may  well  imagine  they  were  yours, 
They  beare  so  great  a  shew  of  modesty. 

Hyi.     O  you  mock  my  boldiicsse 
To  thrust  into  your  company  ;    but  truly 
I  meant  no  hurt  in'i ;   my  intents  were  vertuous. 

Cal.     The  Gods  Forbid  that  I  should  nurse  a  thought 
So  wicked,  thou  art  innocent  I  know, 
And  pure  as  Ftnus  Doves,  or  mountaine  snow 
Which  no  foot  hath  defil'd,  thy  soule  is  whiter 
(if  there  be  any  possibilitie  oft) 
Then  that  clcere  skin  which  cloathes  thy  dainty  body. 

Hy.     Nay  my  good  will  deserves  not  to  be  jecr'd, 
You  know  I  am  a  rude  and  countrey  wench. 

Cal.     Farrc  be  it  from  my  thoughts,  I  sweare  I  honour 
And  love  those  maiden  vertues  which  adorne  you. 

Hy.     I  would  you  did,  as  well  as  I  doe  you, 
But  the  just  Gods  intend  not  me  so  happy, 
And  I  must  be  contented —  I'me  undone.  Ent,  Bellula 

Here's  Bellula;    what  is  she  growne  my  rivall? 

Btll.     Blesse  me  I   whom  see  I  i    Hylace  ?  some  cloud 
Or  friendly  mist  involve  mc. 

Hy.     Nay  Btlluta  ;    I  see  you  well  enough. 

Cal,     Why  doth  the  day  start  backe  i   are  you  so  crucll 
To  shew  us  first  the  light,  and  having  struck 
Wonder  into  us  snatch  it  from  our  sight  \ 
If  Spring  crown'd  with  the  glories  of  the  earth 
Appcare  upon  the  heavenly  Ram,  and  streight 
Creepe  back  againe  into  a  grey-hayr'd  frost, 
Men  will  accuse  its  forwardnesse. 

Hy.     Pray  heaven 
Hec  be  not  taken  with  her ;   shee's  somewhat  laire ; 
He  did  not  speake  so  long  a  speech  to  mee 
Tme  sure  oft,  though  I  brought  him  apples. 

Bell.     I  did  mistake  my  way ;   Pray  pardon  me. 

Hyl.     I  would  you  had  else. 

Cal.     I  must  thanke  fortune  then  which  lead  you  hither, 
But  you  can  stay  a  little  while  and  blesse  usf 

Bel.     Yes  (and  Love  knowes  how  willingly)  alas  I 
90 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

I  shall  quite  spovle  mv  garland  ere  I  give  it  him. 
With  hiding  it  from  Hylace^  Pray  Pan 
Shee  hath  not  stolne  his  heart  already  from  him, 
And  cheated  my  intentions. 

Hy.     I  would  faine  be  going,  but  if  I  should  leave  her, 
It  may  be  I  shall  give  her  opportunity 
To  winne  him  from  me,  for  I  know  she  loveth  him. 
And  hath  perhaps  a  better  tongue  then  I, 
Although  I  should  bee  loth  to  yeeld  to  her 
In  beauty  or  complexion. 

BilL     Let  me  speake 
In  private  with  you ;   I  am  bold  to  bring 
A  garland  to  you,  *tis  of  the  best  flowers 
Which  I  could  gather,  I  was  picking  them 
All  yesterday. 

CaL     How  you  oblige  me  to  you  ! 
I  thanke  you  sweetest.  How  they  flourish  still ! 
Sure  they  grow  better,  since  your  hand  hath  nipt  them. 

BelL     They  will  doe,  when  your  brow  hath  honour'd  them. 
Then  they  may  well  grow  proud,  and  shine  more  freshly. 

CaL     What  perfumes  dwell  in  them  ? 
They  owe  these  odours  to  your  breath. 

Hy.     Defend  me  yee  good  Gods,  I  thinke  he  kisses  her. 
How  long  they  have  beene  talking?   now  perhaps 
Shee's  woing  him ;   perhaps  he  forgets  me 
And  will  consent,  I'le  put  l)im  in  remembrance ; 
You  have  not  tasted  of  the  apples  yet, 
And  they  were  good  ones  truly. 

Cah     I  will  doe  presently  best  Hilace, 

Hy,     That's  some  thing  yet,  would  he  would  speake  so 
al  waves. 

CaL     I  would  not  change  them  for  those  glorious  apples 
Which  give  such  &me  to  the  Hesperian  gardens. 

BelL     She  hath  out-gone  me  in  her  present  now, 
But  I  have  got  a  Beechen  cup  at  home 
Curiously  graven  with  the  spreading  leaves. 
And  gladsome  burthen  of  a  fruitful  vine, 
Which  Damoriy  the  best  Artist  of  these  woods 
Made  and  bestow'd  upon  me.  Fie  bring  that  to  morrow 
And  give  it  him,  and  then  Tie  warrant  her 

91 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

She  will  not  goe  beyond  me. 

Hy,     What  have  you  got  a  chaplet  ?   6h  ! 
This  is  I  see  of  BeUula*s  composing. 

Bell,     Why  Hylacei   you  cannot  make  a  better, 
What  flowers  'pray  doth  it  want  ? 

CaL     Poore  soules  I  pitty  them,  and  the  more. 
Because  I  have  not  beene  my  selfe  a  stranger 
To  these  love  passions,  but  I  wonder 
What  they  can  find  in  me  worth  their  affection. 
Truly  I  would  feine  satisfie  them  both. 
But  can  doe  neither ;    'tis  fates  crime,  not  mine. 

B[e]ll.     W[h]ither  goe  you  shepheard  ? 

Hyl.     You  will  not  leave  us  will  you  ? 

CaL     Indeed  I  ought  not, 
You  have  bought  me  both  with  your  courtesies 
And  should  divide  me. 

Hy.     Shee  came  last  to  vou. 

Bell,     She  hath  another  love. 
And  kills  Palamon  with  her  cruelty. 
How  can  shee  expeft  mercy  from  another ; 

[CaLI     In  what  a  Labarinth  doth  Love  draw  mortalU 
And  then  blindfolds  them  !    what  a  mist  it  throwes 
Upon  their  senses  !    if  he  be  a  God 
As  sure  he  is  (his  power  could  not  be  so  great  else) 
He  knowes  the  impossibiiitie  which  Nature 
Hath  set  betwixt  us,  yet  entangles  us. 
And  laughs  to  see  us  struggle.     D'yee  both  love  me  ? 

Bell,     I  doe  I'me  sure. 

Hyl,     And  I  as  much  as  she. 

CaL     I  pitty  both  of  you,  for  you  have  sow'd 
Upon  unthankful!  sand,  whose  dry'd  up  wombe 
Nature  denyes  to  blesse  with  fruitfuinesse. 
You  are  both  fayre,  and  more  then  common  graces 
Inhabite  in  you  both,  Bellula^s  eyes 
Shine  like  the  lampe  of  Heaven,  and  so  doth  HylaceSj 
Hylaces  cheekes  are  deeper  dy'd  in  scarlet 
Then  the  chast  mornings  blushes,  so  are  Bellula^Sj 
And  I  protest  I  love  you  both.     Yet  cannot. 
Yet  must  not  enjoy  either. 

BelL     You  spcake  riddles. 

92 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

CaL     Which  times  commentarie 
Must  only  explaine  to  you ;   and  till  then 
Farewell  good  Bellulaj  Birewell  good  Hylace^ 
I  thanke  you  both.  Exit. 

HjL     Alas  !   my  hopes  are  strangled.  Exit. 

BelL     I  will  not  yet  despaire :    He  may  grow  milder. 
He  bade  me  &rewell  first;   and  lookt  upon  me 
With  a  more  stedfast  eye,  then  upon  her 
When  he  departed  hence :   'twas  a  good  signe ; 
At  least  I  will  imagine  it  to  be  so, 
Hope  is  the  truest  friend,  and  seldome  leaves  one.  Exit. 

Enter  Truga. 

I  doubt  not  but  this  will  move  him. 

For  they're  good  apples,  but  my  teeth  are  gone, 

I  cannot  bite  them ;   but  for  all  that  though 

He  warrant  you  I  can  love  a  yoimg  Fellow 

As  well  as  any  of  them  all :    I  that  I  can. 

And  kisse  him  too  as  sweetly.     Oh  !   here's  the  mad-man. 

Enter  Aphron. 

Ap.     Herculesj  HerculeSj  ho  Hercules^  where  are  you  ? 
Lend  me  thy  club  and  skin,  and  when  I  ha'  done. 
Be  fling  them  to  thee  againe,  why  Hercules? 
Pox  on  you,  are  you  drunke?   can  you  not  answer? 
He  travell  then  without  them,  and  doe  wonders. 

Tru.     I  quake  all  over,  worse  then  any  fitt 
Of  the  palsie  which  I  have  had  this  forty  yeares 
Could  make  me  doe. 

Ap.     So  I  ha'  found  the  plot  out, 
First  I'le  climbe  up,  on  Porter  Atlas  shoulders. 
And  then  craule  into  Heaven,  and  I 'me  sure 
I  cannot  chuse  but  find  her  there. 

Tru.     What  will  become  of  me  if  he  should  see  me? 
Truly  he's  a  good  proper  Gentleman, 
If  he  were  not  mad,  I  would  not  be  so  'fraid  of  him. 

Ap.     What  have  I  caught  thee  fay  rest  of  all  women  ? 
Where  hast  thou  hid  thy  selfe  so  long  from  Aphron? 
Aphron  who  hath  beene  dead  till  this  blest  minute  ? 

93 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Tru.     Ha,  ha,  ha,  whom  doth  he  take  me  for ! 

jtp.     Thv  skin  is  whiter  then  the  snowy  feathers 
Of  Leda*5  Swannes. 

Tru.     Law  you  there  now, — 
I  thought  I  was  not  so  unhandsome,  as  thev'd  make  me. 

Ap.     Thy  haires  are  brighter  then  the  Moones, 
Then  when  she  spreads  her  beames  and  fills  her  orbe. 

Trug,    Beshrew  their  heart  that  call  this  Gentleman  mad, 
He  hath  his  senses  He  warrant  him,  about  him. 
As  well  as  any  fellow  of  them  all. 

Apu.     Thy  teeth  are  like  two  Arches  made  of  Ivory, 
Ofpurest  Ivory. 

7  rw.     I  for  those  few  I  have, 
I  thinke  they're  white  enough. 

Ap,     Thou  art  as  fresh  as  May  is,  and  thy  look 
Is  pidture  of  the  Spring. 

Tru,     Nay,  I  am  but  some  fourscore  yeares  and  tenne 
And  beare  my  age  well ;  yet  Alupis  sayes 

I  looke  like  January,  but  Tie  teach  the  knave 
Another  tune  Fie  warrant  him. 

Ap,     Thy  lips  are  cheryes,  let  me  tast  them  sweet? 

Tru,     You  have  begd  so  handsomly. 

Ap,     Ha !  yee  good  Gods  defend  me  !  'tis  a  Witch,  a  Hag. 

^rug.     What  am  I? 

Ap,     A  witch,  one  that  did  take  the  shape 
Of  my  best  Mistris,  but  thou  couldst  not  long 
Belye  her  purenesse. 

Tru,     Now  he's  starke  mad  againe  upon  the  sudden ; 
He  had  some  sense  even  now. 

Ap,     Thou  lookst  as  if  thou  wert  some  wicked  woman 
Frighted  out  of  the  grave ;   defend  me,  how 
Her  eyes  doe  sinke  into  their  ugly  holes. 
As  if  they  were  afraid  to  see  the  light. 

Tni,     I  will  not  be  abus'd  thus,  that  I  will  not. 
My  haire  was  bright  even  now,  and  my  lookes  fresh : 
Am  I  so  quickly  changed? 

Ap.     Her  breath  infects  the  ayre,  and  sowes  a  pestilence 
Where  c're  it  comes;   what  hath  she  there? 

I I  these  are  apples  made  up  with  the  stings 
Of  Scorpions,  and  the  bloud  of  Basiliskes ; 

94 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Which  being  swallowed  up,  a  thousand  paines 
£ate  on  the  heart,  and  gnaw  the  entrailes  out. 

Tru.     Thou  lyest ;   I,  that  thou  do'st, 
For  these  are  honest  apples,  that  they  are ; 
I'me  sure  I  gathered  them  my  selfe. 

jtp.     From  the  Stygian  tree ;   Give  them  me  quickly,  or 
I  will— 

Tru.     What  will  you  doe?    pray  take  them. 

jtp.     Get  thee  gone  quickly,  from  me,  for  I  know  thee ; 
Thou  art  Tisipbone. 

Tru.     *Tis  false ;   for  I  know  no  such  woman. 
I'me  glad  I  am  got  from  him,  would  I  had 
My  apples  too,  but  'tis  no  matter  though, 
I'le  have  a  better  gift  for  CaUidorus 
To  morrow. 

Ap.     The  fiend  is  vanisht  from  me. 
And  hath  left  these  behind  for  me  to  tast  of. 
But  I  will  be  too  cunning ;   Thus  Tie  scatter  them. 
Now  I  have  spoyl'd  her  plot ;    Unhappy  hee 
Who  finds  them.  Exit. 


Finis  A£fu5  secundi. 


95 


A£tus  III.     Scaena  I. 


Enter  Florellus. 

THe  Sun  five  times  hath  gone  his  yearly  progresse, 
Since  last  I  saw  my  Sister,  and  returning 
Biege  with  desire  to  view  my  native  S/V/V/V, 
I  found  my  aged  parents  sadly  mourning 
The  funerall  (for  to  them  it  seemes  no  lesse) 
Of  their  departed  Daughter ;   what  a  welcome 
This  was  to  me,  all  in  whose  hearts  a  veine 
Of  marble  growes  not,  easily  may  conceive 
Without  the  dumbe  perswasions  of  my  teares. 
Yet  as  if  that  were  nothing,  and  it  were 
A  kind  of  happinesse  in  misery 
If't  come  without  an  army  to  attend  it. 
As  I  passM  through  these  woods  I  saw  a  woman 
Whom  her  attyre  call'd  Shepheardesse,  but  face 
Some  disguisM  Angell,  or  a  Silvan  Goddesse ; 
It  struck  such  adoration  (for  I  durst  not 
Harbour  the  love  of  so  divine  a  beauty) 
That  ever  since  I  could  not  teach  my  thoughts 
Another  objedl ;    In  this  happy  place 
(Happy  her  presence  made  it)  she  appearM, 
And  breath'd  fresh  honours  on  the  smiling  trees, 
Which  owe  more  of  their  gallantry  to  her 
Then  to  the  musky  kisses  of  the  West  wind. 
Ha !   sure  'tis  she ;   Thus  doth  the  Sunne  breake  forth 
From  the  blacke  curtainc  of  an  envious  cloud. 

Enter  Alupisy  Bellula^  Hylace. 

AL     For  Uis  but  a  folly^  &c. 
Hyl.     Wee  did  not  send  for  you ;   pray  leave  us. 
Alu.     No,  by  this  light,  not  till  I  see  you  cry ; 
When  you  have  shed  some  penitentiall  teares 

96 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

For  wronging  of  Pal^mM,  there  nay  be 
A  truce  concluded  betwixt  you  and  me. 

BtH.    This  is  uncivill 
To  thrust  into  our  company ;   doe  you  thinke 
That  we  admire  your  wit^   pray  goe  to  them 
That  doe,  we  would  be  private. 

A/.    To  what  purpose? 
You'd  aske  how  many  shepheards  she  hath  strooken, 
Which  is  the  properest  man?  which  kisses  sweetest? 
Which  brings  her  the  best  presents?   And  then  tell 
What  a  fine  man  wooes  you,  how  reddc  his  lips  are? 
How  bright  his  eyes  are  ?  and  what  dainty  sonnets 
He  bath  composed  in  honor  of  your  beauty? 
And  then  at  last,  with  what  rare  tricks  you  foole  him? 
These  are  your  learn'd  discourses ;   but  were  all 
Men  of  my  temperance,  and  wisdome  too, 
You  should  wooe  us,  I,  and  wooe  hardly  too 
Before  you  got  us. 

fh.     Oh  prophanencsse  I 
Can  hee  so  rudely  spcake  to  that  blest  virgin, 
And  not  be  strudccn  dumbe? 

Al.     Nay,  you  have  both  a  mind  to  me ;   I  know  it, 
But  I  will  marry  neither ;   I  come  hither 
Not  to  gaze  on  you,  or  extoll  your  beauty ; 
I  come  to  vex  you. 

FU,     Ruder  yet?   I  cannot, 
I  will  not  su^r  this;   madde  fellow,  is  there 
No  other  Nymph  in  all  these  spacious  woods, 
To  fling  thy  wildc,  and  saucie  laughter  at. 
But  her,  whom  thy  great  Deity  even  Pan 
Himselfe  would  honor,  doe  not  dare  to  utter 
The  smallest  accent  if  not  cloath'd  with  reverence. 
Nay,  doe  not  looke  upon  her  but  with  eyes 
As  humble  and  submissive  as  thou  wouldst 
Upon  the  brow  of  Majesty,  when  it  frownes, 
I  speakc  but  that  which  duty  binds  us  all  to. 
Thou  shall  not  thinlce  upon  her,  no  not  thinke. 
Without  as  much  respeft  and  honor  to  her 
As  holy  men  in  superstitious  zeale 
Give  b)  the  Images  they  worship. 
C  II.  G 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Bill.     Oh !  this  is  the  Gentleman  courted  me  th'other  day. 
Al.    Why?   have  jaa  got  a.  Pattent  to  restraine  me? 
Or  doe  you  thinke  your  glorious  sute  can  fr^ht  me? 
*T would  doe  you  much  more  credit  at  the  Theater, 
To  rise  betwixt  the  Afls,  and  looke  about 
The  boxes,  and  then  cry,  God  save  you  Madame, 
Or  beare  you  out  in  quarreling  at  an  Ordinary, 
And  make  your  oathes  become  you ;    have  you  shown 
Your  gay  apparcll  every  where  in  townc, 
That  you  can  aSbrd  us  the  sight  oft,  or 
Hath  that  Grand  Divell  whose  cclipped  sergeant. 
Frighted  you  out  of  the  City? 

Flo.     Your  loose  jests 
When  they  are  shot  at  me,  I  scorne  to  take 
Any  revenge  upon  them,  but  ncglcft, 
For  then  'tis  rashnesse  only,  but  as  scone 
As  you  begin  to  violate  her  name, 
Nature  and  conscience  too  bids  me  be  angry, 
For  then  'tis  wickednesse. 

Al.     Well,  if  it  be  so, 
I  hope  you  can  forgive  the  sinne  that's  past 
Without  the  dolcfull  sight  of  trickling  teares, 
For  I  have  eyes  of  pumice  ;    I'me  content 
To  let  her  rest  in  quiet,  but  you  have  given  me 
Free  leave  t'abuse  you,  on  the  condition 
You  will  revenge  it  only  with  ncgleil. 
For  then  'tis  rashnesse  only. 

Fh.     What  are  you  biting? 
Where  did  you  pick  these  fragments  up  of  wit. 

AL     Where  I  pay'd  deare  enough  a  conscience  for  them, 
They  should  be  more  then  fragments  by  their  price, 
I  bought  them  sir,  even  from  the  very  Merchants, 
I  scorn'd  to  deale  with  your  poorc  City  pedlers,  that  sell 
By  retayle :    But  let  that  passe  ;   For  'tis  but  a  fillj : 

Fie.     Then  you  have  secne  the  City. 

Al.     I  and  felt  it  too,  I  thankc  the  Divell ;   I'me  sure 
It  suckt  up  in  three  yeares  the  whole  estate 
My  father  left,  though  he  were  counted  rich, 
A  pox  of  forlome  Captaines,  piitifiill  things. 
Whom  you  mistake  for  souldiers,  only  by 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

Their  sounding  oathes,  and  a  buffe  jerkin,  and 
Some  Histories  which  they  have  learn'd  by  roate, 
Of  battailes  fought  in  Persia^  or  Polonioy 
Where  they  themselves  were  of  the  conquering  side, 
Although  God  knowes  one  of  the  City  Captaines, 
Arm'd  with  broad  scarfe,  feather,  and  scarlet  breeches. 
When  he  instruds  the  youth  on  Holy  dayes. 
And  is  made  sicke  with  fearfiill  noyse  of  Guns, 
Would  pose  them  in  the  art  Militairy;   these 
Were  my  first  Leeches. 

Flo.     So,  no  wonder  then  you  spent  so  fast. 

AL     Pish,  these  were  nothing : 
I  grew  to  keepe  your  Poets  company 
Those  are  the  soakers,  they  refin'd  me  first 
Of  those  grosse  humors  that  are  bred  by  money 
And  made  me  streight  a  wit,  as  now  you  see, 
For  *tis  tut  a  fiUj, 

Flo.     But  hast  thou  none  to  fling  thy  salt  upon 
But  these  bright  virgins? 

AU     Yes  now  you  are  here ; 
You  are  as  good  a  theame  as  I  could  wish. 

Hj.     nris  best  for  me  to  goe,  whilst  they  are  talking. 
For  if  I  steale  not  from  Alupis  sight, 
He'le  follow  me  all  day  to  vex  me.  Exit. 

AL     What  are  you  vanishing  coy  Mistris  Hylace} 
Nay,  Pie  be  with  you  streight,  but  first  Pie  fetch 
Pahemen^  now  if  he  can  play  his  part 
And  leave  oflF  whining,  wee*le  have  princely  sport. 
Well,  I  may  live  in  time  to  have  the  women 
Scratch  out  my  eyes,  or  else  scould  me  to  death, 
I  shall  deserve  it  richly:    Farewell  Sir: 
I  have  employment  with  the  Damsell  gone 
And  cannot  now  intend  you.  Exit. 

Flo.    They're  both  gone, 
Direfl  me  now  good  love,  and  teach  my  tongue 
Th*inchantments  that  thou  woo'dst  thy  Psyche  with. 

Bell.     Farewell  Sir. 

Flo.     Oh  I   be  not  so  cruell. 
Let  me  enjoy  my  selfe  a  little  while. 
Which  widiout  you  I  cannot. 

G  2  99 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

BtU.     Pray  let  me  goe, 
To  tend  my  sheepe,  there's  none  that  loolccs  to  them^ 
And  if  my  father  misse  me,  he'le  so  chide. 

FU.     Alas !   thou  needest  not  fcare,  for  th'Wolfe  himselfie 
Though  hunger  whet  the  fury  of  its  nature, 
Would  learne  to  spare  thy  pretty  floclcs,  and  be 
As  careful!  as  the  shephcards  dog  to  guard  them, 
Nay  if  he  should  not.  Pan  would  present  be, 
And  keepe  thy  tender  lambcs  in  safety  for  thee, 
For  though  he  be  a  God  he  would  not  blush 
To  be  thy  servant. 

Bell.     Oh  !   you're  courtly  Sir. 
But  your  fine  words  will  not  defend  my  sheepe. 
Or  stop  them  if  they  wander ;   Let  me  goe. 

Flo,     Are  you  so  fearefuU  of  your  cattels  losse? 
Yet  so  negleftfiill  of  my  perishing, 
(For  without  you  how  can  I  choose  but  perish  f) 
Though  I  my  selfe  were  most  contemptible, 
Yet  for  this  reason  only,  that  I  love 
And  honour  you,  I  deserve  more  then  they  doe. 

Bell.     What  would  you  doe,  that  thus  you  urge  my  stay? 

Flo.     Nothing  I  sweare  that  should  ofTend  a  Saint, 
Nothing  which  can  call  up  thy  maiden  bloud 
To  lend  thy  face  a  blush,  nothing  which  chaste 
And  vcrtuous  sisters  can  deny  their  Brothers, 
I  doe  confessc  I  love  you,  but  the  fire 
In  which  "Jove  courted  his  ambitious  Mistris, 
Or  that  by  holy  men  on  Altars  kindled. 
Is  not  so  pure  as  mine  is ;   I  would  only 
Gaze  thus  upon  thee ;   feed  my  hungry  eyes 
Sometimes  with  those  bright  tresses,  which  the  wind 
Farre  happier  then  I,  playes  up  and  downe  in, 
And  sometimes  with  thy  cheekcs,  those  rosy  twins ; 
Then  gently  touch  thy  hand,  and  often  kist  it. 
Till  thou  thy  selfe  shoutdst  chccke  my  modesty 
And  yceld  thy  lips,  but  further,  though  thou  should'st 
Like  other  maids  with  weake  resistance  aske  it, 
(Which  I  am  sure  thou  wilt  not)  I'de  not  o£fcr 
Till  lawful!  Hymen  joyne  us  both,  and  give 
A  licence  unto  my  desires. 


LOVES    RIDDLE 

Bffl.     Which  1  .       ■;. 

Need  not  bestow  much  language  to  dp^Kjse, 
Fortune  and  nature  have  Fortiiddeii  it;'  -" 
When  they  made  me  a  rude  and   homcly'.'yrcnch 
You  (if  your  clothes  and  cariage  be  not  ly»Wi^ 
By  state  and  birth  a  Gentleman.  ;'"- 

Flo.     I  hope  '  -' 

I  may  without  suspition  of  a  boaster 
Say  that  I  am  so,  else  my  love  were  impudence 
For  doc  you  thinke  wise  Nature  did  intend 
You  for  a  Shcpheardcssc,  when  she  bestow'd 
Such  paines  in  your  creation  ?    would  she  fetch 
The  perfumes  of  yirabia  for  your  breath  ? 
Or  ransack  Ptitum  of  her  choycest  roses 
X'adorne  your  cheekes  ?    would  she  bereave  the  rock 
Of  coral!  for  your  lips  ?    and  catch  two  starres 
As  they  were  felling,  which  she  form'd  your  eyes  of? 
Would  she  her  selfe  turne  work-woman  and  spinnc 
Threeds  of  the  finest  gold  to  be  your  tresses? 
Or  rob  the  Great  to  make  one  Microcosme? 
And  having  finisht  quite  the  beauteous  wonder, 
Hide  it  from  publique  view  and  admiration  ! 
No  ;   she  would  set  it  on  some  Pyramide, 
^^To  be  the  spcftacle  of  many  eyes  : 
^E&nd  it  doth  grieve  me  that  my  niggard  fortune 
^H^ys'd  me  not  up  to  higher  eminency, 
^HVoi  that  I  am  ambitious  of  such  honors 
^^But  that  through  them  I  might  be  made  more  worthy 
To  enjoy  you. 

Btll.     You  are  for  ought  I  see 
Too  great  already ;   I  will  cither  live 
An  undefiled  virgin  as  I  am 
Or  if  I  marry,  not  belye  my  birth, 
But  joyne  my  selfe  to  some  plaine   vertuous  shepheard 
(For  Callidarui  is  so,  and  I  will  1       ,  - , 
be  either  his  or  no  bodycs.)/ 
Fh.     Pray  heare  me. 

Bell,     Alas !   I  have  Sir,  and  doe  therefore  now 
Prepare  to  answer,  if  this  passion 
Bee  love,  my  fortune  bids  me  to  deny  you ; 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

If  lust,  my  honesty  commHnds  to  scorne  you, 
Farewell.  '  '•. 

Flo.     O  stay  a.  Hftlt !   but  two  words  :   she's  gone, 
Gone  like  the  gl^Hous  Sun,  which  being  sette 
Night  creepes.'6sjiihd  and  covers  all ;   some  way 
I  must  seelc£'x>ut  to  win  her,  or  what's  easier 
(And  the;bI)l\J  man  himselfe  without  a  guide 
May  find).  )6me  way  to  dye ;   would  I  had  beene 
Borne  a'-poore  shcpheard  in  these  shady  woods. 
Nature  is  cruell  in  her  benefits 
A/rd.  'when  she  gives  us  honey,  mingles  gall. 
Sbif  said  that  if  she  married,  the  woods 
.Should  find  a  husband  for  her.     I  will  wooe  her 
In  Sylvan  habit,  then  perhaps  she'le  love  me — 
But  yet  I  will  not,  that's  in  vainc ;   I  will  too. 
It  cannot  hurt  to  try.  Exiu 

Enter  Alupis,  Palaemon,  after  them  Hylace. 

Al.     Nay  come,  she's  just  behind  us,  are  you  ready  ? 
When  she  scoulds,  bee  you  lowdest,  if  she  cry 
Then  laugh  abundantly,  thus  we  will  vex  her 
Into  a  good  conceit  of  you. 

Pal.     rie  warrant  you  \   you  have  instrudled  me  enough, 
Shee  comes. 

Hyl.     Is't  possible  that  Bellula — 

Pal.     Fayre  creature — 

Hyl.    Sure  thou  wert  borne  to  trouble  me,  who  sent  for  thee? 

Pa.     Whom  all  the  Nymphs  (though  women  use  to  be 
As  you  know,  envious  of  anothers  beauty) 
Confesse  the  pride  and  glory  of  these  woods. 

Hyl.     When  did  you  make  this  speech?  'tis  a  most  neat  one 
Goe,  get  you  gone,  looke  to  your  rotting  cattell, 
You'le  never  keepe  a  wife,  who  are  not  able 
To  keepe  your  sheepe. 

Al.     Good  !   she  abuses  him 
Now  'tis  a  miracle  he  doth  not  cry. 

Pal.     Thou  whom  the  starres  might  envy  'cause  they  arc 
Outshone  by  thee  on  earth. 

Hyl.     Pray  get  you  gon, 

102 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Or  hold  your  prating  tongue,  for  whatsoever 
Thou  safest,  I  will  not  heare  a  syllable. 
Much  lesse  answer  thee. 

Pa.     No;   Fie  try  that  streight 
I  have  a  present  here — 

Which  if  you'le  give  me  leave,  I  shall  presume 
To  dedicate  to  your  service. 

//jr.     You're  so  cunning, 
And  have  such  pretty  wayes  to  entice  me  with, 
Come  let  me  see  it. 

Pa.     Oh !   have  you  found  a  tongue  ? 
I  thought  I  had  not  beene  worth  an  answer? 

Hy.     How  now  ;   what  tricks  are  these  ? 
Give  it  me  quickly,  or — 

Pa.     Pray  get  you  gon,  or  hold  your  prating  tongue ; 
For  whatsoever  thou  sayest  I  will  not  heare 
A  pliable,  much  lesse  answer  thee. 

JL     Good  boy  'faith :   now  let  me  come. 

Hy.     This  is  some  plot  I  see,  would  I  were  gone, 
I  had  as  lief  see  the  wolfe  as  this  Alupis. 

Al.     Here's  a  fine  Ring,  I  faith,  a  very  pretty  one. 
Doe  your  teeth  water  at  it  Damsell  ?   ha  ? 
Why  we  will  sell  our  sheepe,  and  oxen,  girle. 
Hang  them  scurvy  beasts,  to  buy  you  pretty  knacks. 
That  you  might  laugh  at  us,  and  call  us  fooles 
And  jeere  us  too,  as  farre  as  your  wit  reaches. 
Bid  us  be  gone,  and  when  we  have  talkt  two  houres. 
Deny  to  answer  us;   Nay  you  must  stay  She  offers 

And  heare  a  little  more.  to  be  gone. 

Hy.     Must  I  ?  are  you 
The  master  of  my  businesse  ?   I  will  not. 

Al.     Faith  but  you  shall ;   heare  therefore  and  be  patient. 
rie  have  thee  made  a  Lady,  yes  a  Lady, 
For  when  thou'st  got  a  chaine  about  thy  necke 
And  comely  bobes  to  dandle  in  thine  eares; 
When  thou'st  perfum'd  thy  haire,  that  if  thy  breath 
Should  be  corrupted,  it  might  scape  unknowne. 
And  then  bestow'd  two  houres  in  curling  it. 
Uncovering  thy  breast  hithe[r],  thine  armes  hither. 
And  had  thy  Fucus  curiously  lay'd  on; 

103 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Thou*dst  be  the  finest  proud  thing,  He  warrant  thee 
Thou  would*st  outdoe  them  all.     So,  now  goe  thee  to  her 
And  let  me  breathe  a  little ;    For  *tis  but  a  foll%  ice. 

Hy.     Oh  !   is*t  your  turne  to  speake  againe  r   no  doubt 
But  we  shall  have  a  good  oration  then, 
For  they  call  you  the  learned  shepheard ;   well 
This  is  your  love  I  see. 

Pa.     Ha,  ha,  ha, 
What  should  I  love  a  stone  ?   or  wooe  a  pidture  ? 
Alas  1   I  must  be  gone,  for  whatsoc're 
I  say,  you  will  not  heare  a  syllable 
Much  lesse  answer;   goe,  you  thinke  you  are, 
So  singularly  handsome,  when  alas. 
Gal/ay  Menalca*s  daughter,  Bellula^ 
Or  Amaryllis  overcome  you  quite. 

Hy.     This  is  a  scurvy  fellow ;    He  fit  him  for't. 
No  doubt  they  are ;    I  wonder  that  your  wisdome 
Will  trouble  me  so  long  with  your  vaine  suite. 
Why  doe  you  not  wooe  them? 

Pa.     Perhaps  I  doe; 
Pie  not  tell  you,  because  you'le  envy  them. 
And  alwayes  be  dispraising  of  their  beauties. 

Hy.     It  shall  appeare  I  will  not,  for  Tie  sooner 
Embrace  a  Scorpion,  then  thee,  base  man. 

Pa.     Ha,  ha,  ha. 
Alupis  do'st  thou  heare  her  ?   she'le  cry  presently. 
Doe  not  despaire  yet  girle,  by  your  good  carriage 
You  may  recall  me  still ;   some  few  entreatyes 
Mingled  with  teares  may  get  a  kisse  perhaps. 

Hy.     I  would  not  kisse  thee  for  the  wealth  of  Sicily 
Thou  wicked  perjur'd  Fellow. 

Pal.     Alupis,  6h ! 
We  have  incenst  her  too  much  !    how  she  lookes  ? 
Prithee  Alupis  helpe  me  to  intreate, 
You  know  we  did  but  jest,  deare  Hylace, 
Alupisy  prithee  speake,  best,  beauteous  Hylace^ 
I  did  but  doe't  to  try  you,  pray  forgive  me. 
Upon  my  knees  I  begge  it. 

Al.     Here's  a  pretious  foole. 

Hyl.    Do*st  thou  still  mock  me  ?  hast  thou  found  more  wayes? 

104 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Thou  nccd'st  not  vex  thjr  wit  to  move  my  hate, 

Sooner  the  Sunne  and  starres  shall  shine  together. 

Sooner  the  Wolfe  make  peace  with  tender  Tambes 

Then  I  with  thee ;   thou'rt  a  disease  to  me 

And  wound'st  my  eyes.  Exit. 

PaL     Eternal!  night  involve  me !   if  there  be 
A  punishment,  (but  sure  there  is  not  any) 
Greater  then  what  her  anger  hath  inflidled. 
May  that  fidl  on  me  too?  how  have  I  fool'd 
Away  my  hopes?   how  have  I  beene  my  selfe 
To  my  owne  selfe  a  theefe? 

AL     I  told  you  this. 
That  if  she  should  but  frowne,  you  must  needs  fidl 
To  your  old  tricks  againe. 

Pa.     Is  this  your  art  ? 
A  lovers  ciu^e  upon  it ;   Oh  !   Alupts 
Thou  hast  done  worse  then  murthered  me :   for  which 
May  all  thy  flocks  pine  and  decay  like  me, 
May  thy  curst  wit  hurt  all ;   but  most  its  Master, 
May'st  thou  (for  I  can  wish  no  greater  ill) 
Love  one  like  me,  and  be,  like  me,  contemned. 
Thou  'ast  all  the  darts  my  tongue  can  fling  at  thee. 
But  I  will  be  reveng'd  some  other  way 
Before  I  dye,  which  cannot  now  be  long. 

Alu.     Poore  Shepheard,  I  begin  to  pitty  him. 
rie  see  if  I  can  comfort  him  ;    PaUtmon^ — 

Pal.     Nay,  doe  not  follow  me,  griefe,  passion 
And  troubled  thoughts  are  my  companions. 
Those  I  had  rather  entertaine  then  thee. 
If  you  choose  this  way  let  me  goe  the  other. 
And  in  both  parts  distracted  error,  thee 
May  revenge  quickly  meet,  may  death  meet  me.  Exit. 

Alu.     Well,  I  say  Pan  defend  me  from  a  lover 
Of  all  tame  mad-men  certainly  they're  the  worst, 
I  would  not  meet  with  two  such  creatures  more 
For  any  good,  they  without  doubt  would  put  me. 
If  it  be  possible  into  a  fit  of  sadnesse. 
Though  it  Be  but  a  folly^  Sec. 
Well ;   I  must  find  some  plot  yet  to  salve  this 
Because  I  have  engaged  my  wit  in  the  businesse, 

105 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  'twould  be  a  great  sca[n]dall  to  the  Citie 
If  I  who  have  spent  my  meanes  there,  should  not  be 
Able  to  cheate  these  shepheards.     How  now,  how  now, 
Have  we  more  distressed  lovers  here?  Enter  Aphron. 

Aph.     No,  I'me  a  madde  man. 

Al.     I  gave  a  shrewd  ghesse  at  it  at  first  sight 
I  thought  thee  little  better. 

Aph.     Better?  why? 
Can  there  be  any  better  then  a  mad-man  ? 
I  tell  thee,  I  came  here  to  be  a  mad-man, 
Nay,  doe  not  disswade  me  from't,  I  would  bee 
A  very  Madman. 

AL     A  good  resolution  I 
'Tis  as  gentile  a  course  as  you  can  take, 
I  have  knowne  great  ones  have  not  beene  asham'd  oft, 
But  what  cause  pray  drove  you  into  this  humour  ? 

Aph,     Whv  a  Mistris, 
And  such  a  beauteous  one — do'st  thou  see  no  body  ? 
She  sits  upon  a  throne  amongst  the  starres 
And  outshines  them,  looke  up  and  bee  amazed 
Such  was  her  beauty  here, — sure  there  doe  lye 
A  thousand  vapours  in  thy  sleepy  eyes, 
Do'st  thou  not  see  her  yet  ?    nor  yet,  nor  yet  ? 

Alu.     No  in  good  troth. 

Aph.     Thou'rt  dull  and  ignorant. 
Not  skill'd  at  all  in  deepe  Astrology. 
Let  me  instrudl  thee  ? 

Alu.     Prithee  doe,  for  thou 
Art  in  an  admirable  case  to  teach  now. 

Ap.     rie  shew  thee  first  all  the  ccelestiall  signes. 
And  to  begin,  looke  on  that  horned  head. 

AL     Whose  is't?    Jupiters? 

Ap.     No,  'tis  the  Ramme  ! 
Next  that,  the  spacious  Bull  fils  up  the  place. 

AL     The  Bull  ?   'tis  well,  the  fellowes  of  the  Guard 
Intend  not  to  come  thither ;   if  they  did 
The  Gods  might  chance  to  lose  their  beefe. 

Ap.     And  then, 
Yonder's  the  signe  of  Gemini^  do'st  see  it? 

Alu.     Yes,  yes,  I  see  one  of  the  zealous  sisters 

io6 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

Minted  in  friendship  with  a  holy  Brother 
To  beget  Reformations. 

Ap.     And  there  sits  Capricorne. 

AL     A  Welchman  is*t  not  ?  ^ 

Ap.    There  Cancer  creepes  along  with  gouty  pace, 
As  if  his  feet  were  sleepy,  there,  Doe  you  marke  it  ? 

AL     I,  I,  Alderman-like  a  walking  after  dinner, 
His  paunch  orechargd  with  capon  and  with  white  broth. 

Ap.     But  now,  now,  now,  now,  gaze  eternally 
Hadst  thou  as  many  eyes  as  the  blacke  night 
They  would  be  all  too  little ;   seest  thou  Firgo  ? 

AL     No  by  my  troth,  there  are  so  few  on  earth, 
I  should  be  loth  to  sweare  there's  more  in  heaven, 
Then  onely  one. 

Ap.     That  was  my  Mistris  once,  but  is  of  late 
Translated  to  the  height  of  deserv'd  glory, 
And  addes  new  ornaments  to  the  wondjring  heavens. 
Why  doe  I  stay  behind  then,  a  meere  nothing 
Without  her  presence  to  give  life  and  being? 
If  there  be  any  hill  whose  lofty  top 
Nature  hath  made  contiguous  with  heaven, 
Though  it  be  steepe,  rugged  as  Neptunes  brow, 
Though  arm'd  with  cold,  with  hunger,  and  diseases, 
And  all  the  other  souldiers  of  misery, 
Yet  I  would  climbe  it  up,  that  I  might  come 
Next  place  to  thee,  and  there  be  made  a  starre. 

AL     I  prithee  doe,  for  amongst  all  the  beasts 
That  helpe  to  make  up  the  ccelestiall  signes 
There's  a  Calfe  wanting  yet. 

Ap.     But  stay — 

AL     Nay,  I  have  learn'd  enough  Astrology. 

Ap.     Himger  and  faintnesse  have  already  seaz'd  me, 
*Th  a  long  journey  thither,  I  shall  want 
Provision ;   canst  thou  helpe  me,  gentle  shepheard  ? 
And  when  I  am  come  thither  I  will  snatch 
The  Crowne  of  Ariadne^  and  fling't  downe 
To  thee  for  a  reward. 

AL     No  doubt  you  will; 
But  you  shall  neea  no  victuals,  when  you  have  ended 
Your  toylesome  journey,  kill  the  Ram  vou  talke  of, 
And  feed  your  selfe  with  most  celestial!  mutton. 

107 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Ap.    Thou'rt  in  the  right,  if  they  deny  me  that 
rie  pluck  the  Beare  downe  from  the  Artique  Pole, 
And  drowne  it  in  those  waters  it  avoids, 
And  dares  not  touch ;   I'le  tugge  the  Hyades 
And  make  them  to  sinke  downe  in  spight  of  Nature  \ 
rie  meet  with  Charles  his  Wayne,  and  overturnc  it 
And  breake  the  wheeles  oft,  till  Bdotes  start 
For  feare,  and  grow  more  slow  then  e're  he  was. 

AL     By  this  good  light  he'le  snufFe  the  Moone  anon, 
Here's  words  indeed  would  fright  a  Conjurer 
'Tis  pitty  that  these  huge  Giganticke  speeches 
Are  not  upon  the  stage,  they  would  doe  rarely 
For  none  would  understand  them,  I  could  wish 
Some  Poet  here  now,  with  his  table-booke. 

Ap.     rie  cuflfc  with  Pollux^  and  out-ride  thee,  Castor^ 
When  the  fierce  Lyon  roarcs  Tie  plucke  his  heart  out 
And  be  calPd  Cordelion ;   Tie  grapple  with  the  Scorpion, 
Take  his  sting  out  and  fling  him  to  the  earth. 

AL     To  me  good  Sir, 
It  may  perhaps  rayse  me  a  great  estate 
With  shewing  it  up  and  downe  for  pence  apiece. 

Ap.     Alcides  freed  the  earth  from  savadge  monsters, 
And  I  will  free  the  heavens  and  bee  call'd 
Don  Hercules  Alcido  de  secundo. 

AL     A  brave  Castilian  name. 

Ap.     'Tis  a  hard  taske. 
But  if  that  fellow  did  so  much  by  strength, 
I  may  well  do't  arm'd  both  with  love  and  fury. 

Alup.     Of  which  thou  hast  enough. 

Aph.     Farewell  thou  ratte. 
The  Cedar  bids  the  shrub  adiew. 

AL     Farewell 
Don  Hercules  Alcido  de  secundo. 
If  thou  scar'st  any,  'twill  be  by  that  name. 
This  is  a  wonderfull  rare  fellow,  and 
I  like  his  humor  mightily — who's  here  ? 

Enter  Truga. 

The  Chronicle  of  a  hundred  yeares  agoe  I 

How  many  crowes  hath  she  outliv'd  ?   sure  death 

Hath  quite  forgot  her ;   by  this  Memento  mors 

1 08 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

I  must  invent  some  trick  to  heipe  PaLtmon. 

Tru.     I  am  going  againe  to  CallidoruSy 
But  I  have  got  a  better  present  now, 
M7  owne  ring  made  of  good  Ebony, 
Which  a  yong  handsome  shepheard  bestowM  on  me 
Some  fourescore  years  agoe,  then  they  all  lov*d  me, 
I  was  a  handsome  Lasse,  I  wosse  in  those  dayes. 

jfL     I  so  thou  wert  Fie  warrant ;   here's  good  signe  oft 
Now  De  begin  the  worke,  Reverend  Truga^ 
Whose  very  Autumne  shewes  how  glorious 
The  spring-time  of  your  youth  was — 

Tru.     Are  you  come 
To  put  your  mocks  upon  me  ? 

AL     I  doe  confesse  indeed  my  former  speeches 
Have  beene  too  rude  and  saucy;   I  have  flung 
Madde  jests  too  wildly  at  you  \   but  considering 
The  reverence  which  is  due  to  age,  and  vertue, 
I  have  repented,  will  you  see  my  teares? 
And  beleeve  them  ?     Oh  for  an  onyon  now  ! 
Or  I  shall  laugh  alowd ;   ha,  ha,  ha  !  Aside. 

Tru.     Alas  good  soule  I  doe  forgive  you  truly ; 
I  would  not  have  you  weepe  for  me,  indeed 
I  ever  thought  you  would  repent  at  last. 

Al.     You  might  well. 
But  the  right  valewing  of  your  worth  and  vertue 
Hath  turn'd  the  folly  of  my  former  scorne 
Into  a  wiser  reverence,  pardon  me 
If  I  say  love. 

Tru.     I,  I,  with  all  my  heart. 
But  doe  you  speake  sincerely? 

A  I.     Oh  !    it  grieves  me 
That  you  should  doubt  it,  what  I  spoke  before 
Were  lyes,  the  off-^ring  of  a  foolish  rashnesse, 
I  see  some  ^arks  still  of  your  former  beauty. 
Which  spight  of  time  still  flourish. 

Tru.     Why,  I  am  not 
So  old  as  you  imagined,  I  am  yet 
But  fourescore  yeares.     Am  I  a  January  now? 
How  doe  you  thinke?   I  alwayes  did  beleeve 
You*d  be  of  another  opinion  one  day ; 
I  know  you  did  but  jest. 

109 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Al.    Oh  no,  oh  no,  (I  sec  it  takes)  AtUU, 

How  you  bcly  your  age — for — let  me  see — 
A  man  would  take  you — let  me  see — for — 
Some  forty  yeares  or  thereabouts  (I  meane  foure  hundred) 
Not  a  jot  more  I  sweare.  Atidt. 

Tru.     Oh  no  !   you  flatter  me. 
But  I  looke  something  fresh  indeed  this  morning. 
I  should  please  Caliidorus  mightily. 
But  rie  not  goe  perhaps ;   this  fellow  is 
As  handsome  quite  as  he,  and  I  perceive 
He  loves  me  hugely,  I  protest  I  will  not  Aside. 

Have  him  grow  madde,  which  he  may  chance  to  doe 
If  I  should  scorne  him. 

Al.     I  have  something  here 
Which  I  would  faine  reveale  to  you,  but  dare  not 
Without  your  licence. 

Tru.     Doe  in  Pant  name,  doe ;   now,  now. 

Al.     The  comely  gravity  which  adorncs  your  age, 
And  makes  you  still  sceme  lovely,  hath  so  strucken  me — 

Tru.     Alas  good  souic !    I  must  secme  coy  at  first, 
But  not  too  long,  for  feare  I  should  quite  lose  him. 

Al.    That  I  shall  perish  utterly,  unlcsse 
Your  gentle  nature  hclpc  me. 

Tru.     Alas  good  Shepheard  ! 
And  in  troth  I  faine  would  heipe  you 
But  I  am  past  those  vanities  of  love. 

Al.     Oh  no! 
Wise  nature  which  preserv'd  your  life  till  now 
Doth  it  because  you  should  enjoy  these  pleasures 
Which  doc  belong  to  life,  if  you  deny  me, 
I  am  undone. 

Tru.     Well  you  should  not  win  me 
But  that  I  am  loath  to  be  held  the  cause 
Of  any  young  mans  ruine,  doe  not  thinke  it 
My  want  of  chastity,  but  my  good  nature 
Which  would  see  no  one  hurt. 

Al.     Ah  pretty  soule  I  Aside. 

How  supple  'tis  like  wax  before  the  Sun  ! 
Now  cannot  I  chuse  but  kisse  her,  there's  the  plague  of't, 
Let's  then  joyne  our  hearts,  and  seaJc  them  with  a  kisae. 

Tru.    Well,  let  us  then : 


LOVES    RIDDLE 

Twere  incivility  to  be  your  debtor, 

lie  give  you  back  againe  your  kisse,  sweetheart, 

And  come  in  th'aftcrnoone,  I'le  see  you  ; 

My  husband  will  be  gone  to  sell  some  kine, 

And  Hyla<e  tending  the  shecpe,  till  then 

Farewell  good  Duck  {Ofirs  to  got.) 

But  doe  you  hearc,  because  you  shall  remember  {Tumtt 

To  come  rie  give  thee  here  this   Ebon  ring  back.) 

But  doc  not  weare  it,  lest  my  husband  chance 

To  scc't :    Farewell  Duck. 

jfl.     Lest  her  husband  chance 
To  scc't ;   she  cannot  deny  this,  here's  enough ; 
My  Scccnc  of  love  is  done  then  ;    is  she  gone  ? 
ric  call  her  back ;    ho  Truga  j    Truga  h6  : 

Tn.     Why  doc  you  call  me  Duck? 

AI.     Only  to  aske  one  foolish  question  of  thee : 
Ha'n't  you  a  husband  ? 

ITm.     Yes,  you  know  I  have. 
AL     And  doe  you  love  him  ? 
Tru.     Why  doe  you  aske  ?   I  doe. 
Jl.     Yet  you  can  be  content  to  make  him  cuckold? 

Tni.     Rather  then  to  sec  you  perish  in  your  flames. 

AI.     Why  art  thou  now  two  hundred  ycares  of  age, 
Yet  hast  no  more  discretion  but  to  thinke 
That  1  could  love  thee  ?   ha,  ha,  were't  mine 
I'de  sell  thee  to  some  gardincr,  thou  wouldst  serve 
To  scare  away  the  ihceves  as  well  as  crowes, 

Tru.     Oh,  you're  dispos'd  to  jest  I  sec,  Farewell. 

AI.     Nay,  I'me  in  very  earnest  ;    1  love  you  ? 
Why  thy  ^cc  is  a  vizard. 

Trug.     Leave  off  these  tricks,  I  shall  be  angry  else. 
And  take  away  the  favours  I  bestow'd. 

AL     'Tis  knownc  that  thou  hast  eyes  by  the  holes  only, 
Which  are  crept  farther  in,  then  thy  nose  out. 
And  that's  almost  a  yard  ;    thy  quarreling  teeth 
Of  such  a  colour  are,  that  ihcy  themselves 
Scare  one  another,  and  doe  stand  at  distance. 
Thy  skin  hang^  loose  as  if  it  fear'd  the  bones 
(For  flesh  thou  hast  not)  and  is  growne  so  black 
That  a  wildc  Centaure  would  not   meddle  with  thee. 
To  conclude,  Nature  made  thee  when  she  was 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Only  disposM  to  jest,  and  length  of  time 
Hath  made  thee  more  ridiculous. 

Tru,     Base  villaine,  is  this  your  love  ? 
Give  me  my  ring  againe? 

AL     No,  no ;   soft  there : 
I  intend  to  bestovir  it  on  your  husband ; 
He*Ie  keepe  it  better  farre  then  vou  have  done. 

Trug.     What  shall  I  doe  f   Alupis^  good  Alupis^ 
Stay  but  a  little  while,  pray  doe  but  heare  me. 

AL     No,  Pie  come  to  you  in  the  afternoone 
Your  husband  will  be  selling  of  some  kine 
And  Hylace  tending  the  sheepe. 

Tru.     Pray  heare  me,  command  me  anything 
And  be  but  silent  of  this,  good  Alupis ; 
Hugh,  Hugh,  Hugh. 

AL     Yes,  yes,  I  will  be  silent, 
rie  only  blow  a  trumpet  on  yon  hill. 
Till  all  the  countrey  swaines  are  flockt  about  me. 
Then  shew  the  ring,  and  tell  the  passages 
'Twixt  you  and  me. 

Trug.     Alas  I   I  am  undone. 

AL     Well  now  'tis  ripe  j    I  have  had  sport  enough 
Since  I  behold  your  penitentiall  teares 
rie  propose  this  to  you,  if  you  can  get 
Your  Daughter  to  be  married  to  Palamon 
This  day,  for  Tie  allow  no  longer  time ; 
To  morrow  Tie  restore  your  ring,  and  sweare 
Never  to  mention  what  is  past  betwixt  us, 
If  not — you  know  what  followes — take  your  choyse. 

Tru,     ric  doe  my  best  endevour. 

AL     Goe  make  hast  then. 
You  know  your  time's  but  short,  and  use  it  well : 
Now  if  this  faile  the  Divel's  in  all  wit.  Exit  Truga. 

lie  goe  and  thrust  it  forward,  if  it  take, 
rie  sing  away  the  day^ 
For  *tis  but  a  folly 
To  he  melancholly^ 
Let's  live  here  whilst  wee  may,  Exit^ 


Finis  ASius  Tertii, 
112 


Affcus  nil.     Scaena  I. 

Enter  Callidorusj  Bellula^  Florelluu 

CAL     Pray  follow  me  no  more,  me  thinks  that  modesty 
Which  is  so  lively  painted  in  your  face 
Should  prompt  your  maiden  heart  with  feares  and  blushes 
To  trust  your  selfe  in  so  much  privatnesse 
With  one  you  know  not. 

BiL     I  should  love  those  feares 
And  call  them  hopes,  could  I  perswade  my  selfe, 
There  were  so  much  heate  in  you  as  to  cause  them ; 
Prithee  leave  me ;   if  thou  dost  hope  successe 
To  thine  owne  love,  why  interrupt'st  thou  mine? 

Fh,     If  love  cause  you 
To  follow  him,  how  can  you  angry  bee? 
Because  love  forces  me  without  resistance 
To  doe  the  same  to  you? 

BilU     Love  should  not  grow 
So  subtill  as  to  play  with  arguments. 

Flo.     Love  should  not  be  an  enemy  to  reason. 

CaL     To  love  is  of  it  selfe  a  kind  of  Folly, 
But  to  love  one  who  cannot  render  back 
Equall  desire,  is  nothing  else  but  madnesse. 

BelL     Tell  him  so;   'tis  a  lesson  he  should  learne. 

Flo^     Not  to  love  is  oft  selfe  a  kind  of  hardnesse. 
But  not  to  love  him  who  hath  alwayes  woo'd  you 
With  chast  desires,  is  nothing  lesse  then  tyranny. 

Bell.     Tell  him  so;   'tis  a  lesson  he  should  learne. 

Call.     Why  doc  you  follow  him  that  flyes  from  you  ? 

FU.     Why  doc  you  fly  from  him  that  foUowes  you  ? 

BelL     Why  doc  you  follow  ?     Why  doe  you  fly  from  me  ? 

Call.    The  Fates  command  me  that  I  must  not  love  you. 

Fh.    The  Fates  command  me  that  I  needs  must  love  you. 

ciL  H  113 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Bell,     The  Fates  impose  the  like  command  on  me, 
That  you  I  must,  that  jrou  I  cannot  love. 

Flo.     Unhappy  man  !   when  I  begin  to  cloath 
My  love  with  words,  and  court  her  with  perswasions. 
She  stands  unmov'd,  and  doth  not  cleare  her  brow 
Of  the  least  wrinkle  which  sate  there  before  \ 
So  when  the  waters  with  an  amorous  noyse 
Leape  up  and  downe,  and  in  a  wanton  dance 
Kisse  the  dull  rocke,  that  scornes  their  fond  embraces, 
And  darts  them  back;   till  they  with  terror  scattered. 
Drop  downe  againe  in  teares. 

Bell,     Unhappy  woman  I 
When  I  begin  to  shew  him  all  my  passion, 
He  flyes  from  me,  and  will  not  cleare  his  brow 
Of  any  cloud  which  covered  it  before ; 
So  when  the  ravishing  Nightingale  hath  tun'd 
Her  mournfull  notes,  and  silenc'd  all  the  birds. 
Yet  the  deafe  wind  flirts  by,  and  in  disdaine 
With  a  rude  whistle  leaves  her. 

Cal,     We  arc  all  three 
Unhappy ;    borne  to  be  the  proud  example 
Of  Loves  great  God-head,  not  his  God-like  goodnesse. 
Let  us  not  call  upon  our  selves  those  miseries 
Which  love  hath  not,  and  those  it  hath  beare  bravely. 
Our  desires  yet  are  like  some  hidden  text, 
Where  one  word  seemes  to  contradift  another. 
They  are  Loves  nonsence,  wrapt  up  in  thicke  clouds 
Till  Fate  be  pleas'd  to  write  a  Commentary, 
Which  doubtlcsse  'twill ;   till  then  [let]  us  endure, 
And  sound  a  parlee  to  our  passions. 

Bell,     We  may  joyne  hands  though,  may  we  not? 

Flo,     We  may,  and  lips  too,  may  we  not  ? 

Bell,     We  may  \   come  let's  sit  downe  and  talke. 

Cal,     And  looke  upon  each  other. 

Flo,     Then  kisse  againe. 

Bell,     Then  looke. 

Call,     Then  talke  againe. 
What  are  we  like  ?   the  hand  of  Mother  Nature 
Would  be  quite  pos'd  to  make  our  simile. 

Flo.     We  are  the  Trigon  in  Loves  Hemisphere. 

"4 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Bit,     Wc  are  three  strings  on  f^enus  dainty*st  Lute, 
Where  all  three  hinder  one  anothers  musick, 
Yet  all  three  jojrne  and  make  one  harmony. 

Call.     We  are  three  flowers  of  f^enus  dainty  garden, 
Where  all  three  hinder  one  anothers  odor. 
Yet  all  three  joyne,  and  make  one  nosegay  up. 

Flo.    Come  let  us  kisse  againe. 

Bell,     And  looke. 

Call.     And  talke. 

Flo.    Nay  rather  sing,  your  lips  arc  Natures  organs, 
And  made  for  nought  lesse  sweet  then  harmony. 

Call.     Pray  doe. 

Bell.    Though  I  forfeit 
My  little  skill  in  singing  to  your  wit, 
Yet  I  will  do't,  since  you  command. 

Song. 

//  is  a  punishment  to  love^ 
And  not  to  love  a  punishment  doth  prove  ; 

But  of  all  paines  there^s  no  such  paine^ 
As  *tis  to  lovey  and  not  be  lov^d  againe. 

Till  sixteene  parents  we  obey^ 
After  sixteene^  men  steale  our  hearts  away  : 

How  wretched  are  we  women  growne^ 
Whose  willsj  whose  mindsy  whose  hearts  are  ne^re  our  owne ! 

Call.     Thanke  you. 

Flo.     For  ever  be  the  tales  of  Orpheus  silent. 
Had  the  same  age  seene  thee,  that  very  Poet, 
Who  drew  all  to  him  by  his  harmony. 
Thou  would'st  have  drawne  to  thee. 

Cal.     Come  shall  we  rise  ? 

Bell.     If  it  please  you,  I  will. 

Call.     I  cannot  chuse 
But  pitty  these  two  Lovers,  and  am  taken 
Much  with  the  serious  trifles  of  their  passion. 
Let's  goe  and  see,  if  we  can  breake  this  net 
In  which  we  all  are  caught ;   if  any  man 
Aske  who  we  are,  we'le  say  we  are  Loves  riddle.      Exeunt. 

H  2  115 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Enter  Mgtn,  Palanun,  /tiu^t. 

Pa.     Thou  art  my  better  Genius,  honest  MpH^ 

AL     And  what  am  I  f 

Pu,     My  sclfc,  my  soule,  my  friend, 
Let  me  hu^e  thee  Ahph,  ana  thee  £gen. 
Thee  for  inventing  it,  thee  for  putting  it 
In  a£l ;   But  doe  you  thinlce  the  plot  will  hold  \ 

Ah.     Hold?    why  I'le  warrant  thee  it  shall  hold, 
Till  we  have  ty'd  you  both  in  wedlock  fast. 
Then  let  the  bonds  of  Matrimonie  hold  you 
If  'twill,  if  that  will  not  neither,  I  can  tell  you 
What  will  I'me  sure ;   A  Halter. 
Thtn  sing,  Scc. — 

£ean.     Come,  shall  wc  knock  ? 

AL     I  doe;    For  'tis,  ice— 

jEgan.     Ho  Truga  ;    who's  within  there  ? 

AL     You,  fVinter,  Ho,  you  that  the  grave  expc£led 
Some  hundred  yeares  agoc,  you  that  intend 
To  live  till  you  turne  Skeleton,  and  make 
All  men  aweary  of  you  but  Physitians, 
Pox  on  you,  will  you  come. 


Enter  Truga. 

Tru.     I  come,  I  come,  who's  there  ?    who's  there  ? 

Al.     Oh,  in  good  time, 
Arc  you  crawl'd  here  at  last  i   what  are  you  ready 
To  give  your  Daughter  up  \   the  time  makes  hast 
Looke  here,  doe  you  know  this  ring  f 

Tru.     Harke  aside  I  pray, 
You  have  not  told  these,  have  you  ? 

AL     No  good  Duck, 
Only  I  told  them  that  your  mtnd  was  alttred, 
And  that  you  lik'd  Pauemtn,  so  we  three 
Came  here  to  plot  the  mcanes. 

Tru.     So,  so,  you're  welcome 
Will  you  goe  in  and  talke  about  itf  Extunt. 

1 16 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

Enter  Hylace. 

HyL     I  wonder  why  my  mother  should  invite, 
Alupis  and  PaLtmon  into  th'  house : 
Shee  is  not  of  my  mind,  nay,  not  the  mind 
Which  she  her  selfe  was  of,  but  yesterday, 
Besides  as  soone  as  they  came  in,  she  bid  me 
To  get  me  gone,  and  leave  them  there  in  private, 
By  your  good  favour  Mother,  I  must  be 
For  this  time  disobedient ;   here  He  hearken. 

Enter  Truga^  Palamotiy  Mgon^  Alupis. 

JEgm.     Come  He  tell  you, 
You  know  your  husband  hath  refused  PaLemon 
Because  his  meanes  were  not  unequall  only 
To  his  desires,  but  to  your  Daughters  portion. 
To  salve  this  grand  exception  of  Melamus 
I'le  promise  that  Pakemon  shall  be  made 
My  heire, 

Tru.     Alas  he  knowes  you  have  a  Daughter  ! 

Mg,     It  is  reported  she  is  falne  in  love 
With  the  new  shepheard,  for  which  cause  Tie  seeme 
To  be  incenst  most  sharply,  and  forsweare 
£'re  to  acknowledge  her  for  child  of  mine. 

Tru.     *Tis  very  well; 
It  Aleves  me  truly  that  Palamon  should — 

aU     Perish  in  his  owne  flames ;   is't  not  so  Truga  ? 
I  know  you're  gentle;   and  your  peevish  Daughter 
Had  not  her  cruelty  from  you,  good  soule. 

Pa.     Why  doe  we  stay  ?     Each  minute  that  we  lose  to 
you  is  only 
A  minute,  but  to  me  a  day  at  least. 
Why  are  we  not  now  seeking  of  Melamus  ? 
Why  is  he  not  yet  found  ?  alas,  that's  nothing, 
Me  thinkes  he  should  have  given  consent  e're  this; 
Why  are  not  I  and  beauteous  Hylace 
Married  together? 

HyL     Soft  good  hasty  Lover, 
I  shall  quite  breake  the  neck  of  your  large  hopes. 
Or  Fme  mistaken  much. 

117 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Mg.    Come  let's  be  gone 
Truga^  Farewell.     Be  silent  and  assistant. 

Ai.     Or  else  70U  know  what  I  have ;   goe,  no  more. 

Tru.     l*Ie  warrant  you :   I  am  not  to  be  taught 
At  this  age,  I  thanke  Pauy  in  such  a  bustnesse. 
Farewell  all.  Exr\ 

Ah     Ceme  sing,  &c. 

Hy.     I  know  not  whether  griefc  or  else  amazement 
Seazcth  me  most,  to  see  my  aged  Mother 
Grow  so  unnaturall ;    I  feine  would  weepe, 
But  when  I  thinke  with  what  an  unfear'd  blow 
I  shall  quite  dash  their  cunning,  I  can  hardly 
Bridle  in  laughter,  Fate  helps  the  innocent, 
Although  my  Mother's  false,  the  Gods  are  true,  E 

Enttr  Clariana  and  her  Maid. 

Cla.     Did  you  command  the  servants  to  withdraw  ? 

M.     I  did  forsooth. 

Cla.     And  have  you  shut  the  doorcs  ? 

Af.     Yes. 

CI.     Is  there  none  can  over-heare  our  talke  ? 

M.     Your  curious  enquiry  much  amazcth  me. 
And  I  could  wish  you  would  excuse  my  boldncsse 
If  I  should  aske  the  reason. 

CI.     Thou  knowest  well 
That  thou  hast  found  me  alwayes  liker  to 
Thy  Kinswoman  then  Mistris,  thai  thy  brest 
Has  beene  the  Cabinet  of  all  my  secrets, 
This  I  tell  thee,  not  as  an  exprobration, 
But  because  I  must  require  thy  ^ith 
And  counscU  here.     And  therefore  prithee  swcare — 

M.     Sweare  ?   to  doe  what  f 

CI.     To  be  more  silent  thenithe  dead  of  night. 
And  to  thy  power  to  helpc  me. 

M.     Would  my  power 
To  assist  you  were  as  ready  as  my  will, 
And  for  my  tongue  that  Mistris  Tie  condemne 
Unto  perpetuall  silence,  ere  it  shall 
Betray  the  smallest  word  that  you  commit  to't. 
By  all— 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

CL     Nay  doe  not  sweare,  I  will  not  wrong  thy  vertue 
To  bind  it  with  an  oath,  He  tell  thee  all; 
Doth  not  my  face  seeme  paler  then  'twas  wont  ? 
Doth  not  my  eye  looke  as  it  borrowed  flame 
From  my  fond  heart ;   could  not  my  frequent  weepings, 
My  sudden  sighes,  and  abrupt  speeches  tell  thee 
What  I  am  growne? 

M.     You  are  the  same  you  were, 
Or  else  my  eyes  are  lyars. 

CL     No,  Pme  a  wretched  Lover;   could*st  thou  not 
Read  that  out  of  my  blushes  ?   fie  upon  thee ; 
Thou  art  a  novice  m  Loves  schoole  I  see ; 
Trust  me  I  envy  at  thy  ignorance, 
That  canst  not  find  out  Cupids  chara£lers 
In  a  lost  Mavd,  sure  thou  didst  never  know  him. 

M.     Would  you  durst  trust  me  with  his  name, 
Sure  he  had  charmes  about  him  that  might  tempt 
Chast  Votaries,  or  move  a  Scythian  rock 
When  he  shot  fire  into  your  chaster  breast. 

CL     I  am  asham'd  to  tell  thee,  prithee  ghesse  him. 

M*     Why  *tis  impossible. 

CL     Thou  saw'st  the  gentleman  whom  I  this  morning 
Brought  in  to  be  my  guest. 

M.     Yes,  but  am  ignorant,  who,  or  from  whence  he  is. 

CL    Thou  shalt  know  all ; 
The  freshnesse  of  the  morning  did  invite  me 
To  walke  abroad,  there  I  began  to  thinke 
How  I  had  lost  my  Brother,  that  one  thought 
Like  circles  in  the  water  begat  many, 
Those  and  the  pleasant  verdure  of  the  fields 
Made  me  forget  the  way,  and  did  entice  me 
Farther  than  either  feare  or  modesty 
Else  would  have  suffred  me,  beneath  an  oake 
Which  spread  a  flourishing  Canopy  round  about. 
And  was  it  selfe  alone  almost  a  wood, 
I  foimd  a  Gentleman  distra£ted  strangely. 
Crying  alowd  for  either  food,  or  sleepe. 
And  knocking  his  white  hands  against  the  ground. 
Making  that  groane  like  me,  when  I  beheld  it, 
Pitty,  and  feare,  both  proper  to  us  women, 

119 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Drave  017  feet  backe  farre  swifter  then  thejr  went, 
When  I  came  home,  I  tooke  two  servants  with  me 
And  fetchM  the  gentleman,  hither  I  brought  him, 
And  with  such  cheare  as  then  the  house  afforded. 
Replenished  him,  he  was  much  mended  suddenly. 
Is  now  asleepe,  and  when  he  wakes  I  hope 
Will  find  his  senses  perfcft. 

M,     You  did  shew 
In  this,  what  never  was  a  stranger  to  you. 
Much  piety ;   but  wander  from  your  subject ; 
You  have  not  yet  discovered,  who  it  is 
Deserves  your  love. 

CL     Fy,  Fy,  how  dull  thou  art. 
Thou  dost  not  use  in  other  things  to  be  so ; 
Why  I  love  him ;    His  name  I  cannot  tell  thee ; 
For  'tis  my  great  unhappinesse  to  bee 
Still  ignorant  of  that  my  selfe.     He  comes, 
Looke,  this  is  hee,  but  doe  not  grow  my  rivall  If  thou  canst  [c]huse« 

M.     You  need  not,  fear't  forsooth.  Enter  Apbr9n. 

CL     Leave  me  alone  with  him  ;    withdraw. 

M,     I  doe.  Exit  Maid. 

Ap.     Where  am  I  now  ?   under  the  Northerne  Pole 
Where  a  perpetuall  winter  binds  the  ground 
And  glazeth  up  the  flouds  ?   or  where  the  Sun 
With  neighbouring  rayes  bakes  the  divided  earth. 
And  drinkes  the  rivers  up  ?    or  doe  I  sleepe  ? 
Is't  not  some  foolish  dreame  deludes  my  fancy  ? 
Who  am  I  ?   I  begin  to  question  that. 
Was  not  my  countrey  Sicily?   my  name 
Caird  Aphron^  wretched  Aphron  ? 

Cla.     Yec  good  Gods 
Forbid  ;    is  this  that  man  who  was  the  cause 
Of  all  the  griefe  for  CaUidora^s  losse  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  I  so  oft  have  curst? 
Now  I  could  almost  hate  him,  and  me  thinkes 
He  is  not  quite  so  handsome  as  he  was ; 
And  yet  alas  he  is,  though  by  his  meanes 
My  Brother  is  gone  from  me,  and  heaven  knowes 
If  I  shall  see  him  more,  Foole  as  I  am, 
I  cannot  chuse  but  love  him. 

120 


Ap.     (Jheatc  mc  not  good  eyes. 
What  woman,  or  what  Angel  doe  I 
Oh  stay,  and  let  me  worship  c'rc   thou  goest, 
Whether  thou  beest  a  Goddesse  which  thy  beauty 
Commands  me  to  beleeve,  or  else  some  mortall 
Which  1  the  rather  am  induc'd  to  thinke. 
Because  1  know  the  Gods  all  hate  me  so, 
They  would  not  looke  upon  me. 

CL     Spare  these  titles 
I  am  a  wretched  woman,  who  for  pitty 
(Alas  that  I  should  pitty  !    t'had  bin  better 
That  I  had  beene  remorslcsse)  brought  you  hither, 
Where  with  some  food  and  rest,  thanks  to  the  Gods 
Your  senses  are  recovered. 

Ap,     My  good  Angell  ! 
I  doe  remember  now  that  I  was  madde 
For  want  of  meat  and  sleepe,  thrice  did  the  Sun 
Checrc  all  the  world  but  me,  thrice  did  the  night 
With  silent  and  bewtching  darkn«sse  give 
A  resting  time  to  every  thing  but  Aphron. 
The  fish,  the  beasts,  the  birds,  the  smallest  creatures 
And  the  most  despicable  snor'd  securely. 
The  aguish  head  of  every  tree  by  /Eotui 
Was  rockt  asiecpe,  and  shooke  as   if  it  nodded. 
The  crooked  mountaines  scem'd  to  bow  and  slumber, 
The  very  rivers  ceas'd  their  daily    murmur. 
Nothing  did  watch,  but  the  pale  IHoone,  and  I 
Paler  then  shee  ;    Griefe  wedded  to  this  toyle 
What  else  could  it  beget  hut  frantlcknesse  ? 
But  now  me  ihinkes,  I  am  my  owne,  my  braine 
Swimmcs  not  as  it  was  wont ;    O    brightest  Virgin 
Shew  me  some  way  by  which  I  may  be  gratefuil, 
And  if  I  do't  not,  let  an  eternall  Phrcnzie 
Im medially  seize  on  me. 

a.     Alas  !    'twas  only 
My  love,  and  if  you  will  reward  me  for't. 
Pay  that  I  lent  you,  I'le  require  no  interest; 
fbe  P tin ci pall's  enough. 
I  Ap.     You  speake  in  mists. 

CL    You're  loth  perhaps  to  understand. 


(A^idi) 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Ap.    If  70U  intend  thxt  I  should  love  snd  honour  you, 
I  doe  by  all  the  Gods. 

CI.    But  I  am  covetous  in  my  demands, 
I  am  not  satisfied  with  wind-like  promises 
Which  only  touch  the  lips ;   I  aske  your  heart 
Your  whole  heart  for  me,  in  exchange  of  mine, 
Which  so  I  gave  to  you. 

Ap.     Ha  1   you  amaze  mc. 
Oh  1   you  have  spoken  something  worse  then  lightning, 
That  blasts  the  inward  parts,  leaves,  the  outward  wh^e, 
My  gratitude  commands  me  to  obey  you, 
But  I  am  borne  a  man,  and  have  those  passions 
Fighting  within  me,  which  I  must  obey. 
Whilst  CaUidara  lives,  although  she  bee 
As  cruell,  as  thy  breast  is  soft  and  gentle ; 
'Tis  sinne  for  mc  to  thinke  of  any  other. 

CI.     You  cannot  love  mc  then  f 

Ap.     I  doe  I  sweare, 
Above  my  selfe  I  doe :    my  selfc  ?   what  said  I } 
Alas  !   that's  nothing  \   above  anything 
But  heaven  and  Callidora. 

CI.     Fare  you  well  then, 
I  would  not  doe  that  wrong  to  one  I  love, 
To  urge  him  farther  then  his  power  and  will ; 
Farewell,  remember  me  when  you  are  gone. 
And  happy  in  the  love  of  Callidora.  Exit 

Ap.     When  I  doe  not,  may  I  forget  my  sclfe, 
Would  I  were  madde  againe ;   then  1  might  rave 
With  privilcdge,  I  should  not  know  the  griefes 
That  hurried  mc  about,  'twere  better  farre 
To  lose  the  senses,  then  be  tortured  by  them. 
Where  is  she  gone  f   I  did  not  aske  her  name, 
Foole  that  I  was,  alas  poore  Gentlewoman  ! 
Can  any  one  love  me  ?   yee  cruell  Gods, 
Is't  not  enough  that  I  my  selfe  am  miserable, 
Must  I  make  others  so  too?   He  goe  in 
And  comfort  her ;   alas  1   how  can  I  though  i 
He  grieve  with  her,  that  is  in  ills  a  comfort.  E*ii 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Enter  Ahipisj  Melamus^  Trugdy  PaLtmotiy  £gon. 

Pa.     Before  when  you  denyed  your  Daughter  to  me 
Twas  Fortunes  fault,  not  mine,  but  since  good  Fate 
Or  rather  Mgon^  better  farre  then  Fate 
Hath  raysd  me  up  to  what  you  aym'd  at,  riches, 
I  see  not  with  what  coimtenance  you  can 
Coyne  any  second  argument  against  me. 

AieL     Come,  no  matter  for  that: 
Yes,  I  could  wish  you  were  lesse  eloquent. 
You  have  a  vice  call'd  Poesie  which  much 
Displeaseth  me,  but  no  nutter  for  that  neither. 

jfL    Alas  I   hee'le  leave  that  straight 
When  he  has  got  but  money ;   he  that  swims 
In  Tagus^  never  will  goe  back  to  Helicon. 
Besides,  when  he  hath  maried  Hylace 
Whom  should  he  wooe,  to  praise  her  comely  feature. 
Her  skin  like  falling  snow,  her  eyes  like  starres. 
Her  cheekes  like  roses  (which  are  common  places 
Of  all  your  lovers  praises)  6h  !    those  vanities, 
Things  quite  as  light,  and  foolish  as  a  Mistris, 
Are  by  a  Mistris  first  begot,  and  left 
When  they  leave  her. 

Pa.     Why  doe  you  thinke  that  Poesie 
An  art  which  even  the  Gods — 

Al.     Pox  on  your  arts. 
Let  him  thinke  what  he  will ;   what's  that  to  us  ? 

Mgpn.     Well,  I  would  gladly  have  an  answer  of  you. 
Since  I  have  made  PaLemon  here  my  sonne. 
If  you  conceive  your  Daughter  is  so  good. 
Wee  will  not  presse  you,  but  seeke  out  some  other 
Who  may  perhaps  please  me  and  him  as  well. 

Pa.     Which  is  impossi' — 

Al.     Rot  on  your  possibles — 
Thy  mouth  like  a  crackt  fiddle  never  sounds 
But  out  of  tune ;   Come,  put  on  Truga 
You*le  never  speake  unlesse  I  shew  the  ring. 

Tru.     Yes,  yes,  I  doe,  I  doe  ;  Doe  yee  heare  sweet  heart  ? 
Are  you  madde  to  fling  away  a  fortune 
That's  thrust  upon  you,  you  know  MgorCi  rich. 

123 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

MeL     Come,  no  matter  for  that, 
That's  thrust  upon  me  ?  I  would  faine  see  any  man 
Thrust  ought  upon  me ;   but's  no  matter  for  that, 
I  will  doe  that  which  I  intend  to  doe, 
And  'tis  no  matter  for  that  neither,  that's  thrust  upon  me? 

Pa.     Come,  what  say  you  Melamusf 

MeL     What  say  I  ?  'tis  no  matter  what  I  say, 
I'le  speake  to  ^goUy  if  I  speake  to  any. 
And  not  to  you ;   but  no  matter  for  that ; 
Harke  you,  will  you  leave  all  the  meanes  you  have 
To  this  PaLtmonf 

Tru.     I  Duck,  he  sayes  he  will. 

AfiL     Pish,  'tis  no  matter  for  that.  He  heare  him  say  sa 

jEg,     I  will,  and  here  doe  openly  protest. 
That  since  my  Bellula  (mine  that  was  once) 
Thinkes  her  selfe  wiser  then  her  father  is. 
And  will  be  govern'd  rather  by  her  passions. 
Then  by  the  square  that  I  prescribe  to  her. 
That  I  will  never  count  her  as  my  Daughter. 

Al,     Well  a£ted  by  God  Party  see  but  what  'tis 
To  have  me  for  a  tutor  in  these  rogueries. 

MeL     But  tell  me  now,  good  neighbour,  what  estate 
Doe  you  intend  to  give  him  ? 

£g.     That  estate 
Which  Fortune  and  my  care  hath  given  to  me. 
The  money  which  I  have,  and  that's  not  much. 
The  sheepe,  and  Goats. 

MeL     And  not  the  oxen  too? 

£g.     Yes ;   every  thing. 

MeL     The  Horses  too? 

£g.     I  tell  you,  every  thing. 

AL     By  Pan  hee'le  make  him  promise  him  particularly 
Each  thing  above  the  valew  of  a  Beanes-straw. 
You'le  leave  him  the  pailes  too,  to  milke  the  Kine  in, 
And  harnesse  for  the  horses,  will  you  not  ? 

MeL     I,  I,  what  else ;   but  'tis  no  matter  for  that, 
I  know  PalamorCi  an  ingenious  man. 
And  love  him  therefore;   But's  no  matter  for  that  neither. 

Mg,     Well,  since  we  are  both  agreed,  why  do  we  stay  here  ? 
I  know  Palamon  longs  t'imbrace  his  Hylace. 

124 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

MeL     I,  I,  'tis  no  matter  for  that,  within  this  houre 
Wee  will  be  ready,  £gmy  pray  be  you  so, 
Farewell  my  son  in  Law  that  shall  be, 
But's  no  matter  for  that :   Farewell  all : 
Come  Truga.  Exeunt  Melamus  and  Truga. 

Mg.     Come  on  then,  let's  not  stay  too  long  in  trifling, 
Falamon  goe,  and  prepare  your  selfe  against  the  time. 
rie  goe  acqtuunt  my  Belluia  with  your  plot. 
Lest  this  unwelcome  newes  should  too  much  grieve  her. 
Before  she  know  my  meaning. 

A.     Doe,  doe;   and  Fie  goe  study 
Some  new-found  waves  to  vex  the  foole  M\ela\mus. 

For  'tis  but  a  folly^ 
To  be  melancholy^  &c. 

Enter  Florellus. 

Whilst  Callidorus  lives,  I  cannot  love  thee. 

These  were  her  parting  words ;   He  kill  him  then ; 

Why  doe  I  doubt  it  Foole?   such  wounds  as  these 

Require  no  gentler  med'cine ;   me  thinkes  Love 

Frownes  at  me  now,  and  sayes  I  am  too  dull, 

Too  slow  in  his  command :   and  yet  I  will  not. 

These  hands  are  virgins  yet,  unstain'd  with  viUany, 

Shall  I  begin  to  teach  them? — me  thinkes  Piety 

Frownes  at  me  now,  and  sayes,  I  am  too  weake 

Against  my  passions.     Pietie  ! — 

Twas  feare  begot  that  Bugbeare ;    for  thee  Belluia 

I  durst  be  wicked,  though  I  saw  Joves  hand 

Arm'd  with  a  naked  thunderbolt:    Farewell, 

(If  thou  beest  any  thing,  and  not  a  shadow 

To  fnght  boyes  and  old  women)  Farewell  conscience, 

Goe  and  be  strong  in  other  petty  things 

To  Lovers  come,  when  Lovers  may  make  use  of  thee. 

Not  else:   and  yet, — what  shall  I  doe  or  say? 

I  see  the  better  way,  and  know  'tis  better, 

Yet  still  this  devious  error  drawes  me  backward. 

So  when  contrary  winds  rush  out  and  meet. 

And  wrastle  on  the  Sea  with  equall  fury 

The  waves  swell  into  mountajnes,  and  are  driven 

125 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Now  back,  now  forward,  doubtful!  of  the  two 
Which  Captaine  to  obey. 

Enter  Alupis. 

AL     Ha,  ha,  He  have  such  excellent  sport 
For  *iis  but  a  foll%  Sec, 

Flo.     Why  here's  a  fellow  now  makes  sport  of  every  thing, 
See  one  mans  fate  how  it  excels  another, 
Hee  can  sit,  and  passe  away  the  day  in  jollity. 
My  musick  is  my  sighes,  whilst  teares  keepe  time. 

AL     Who's  here  ?  a  most  rare  posture  ! 
How  the  good  soule  folds  in  his  armes  !   he  dreames 
Sure  that  he  hugges  his  Mistris  now,  for  that 
Is  his  disease  without  all  doubt,  so,  good. 
With  what  judicious  garbe  hee  plucl^  his  hat 
Over  his  eyes ;   so,  so,  good  !   better  yet ; 
He  cryes ;   by  this  good  light,  he  cryes ;   the  man 
Is  carefiill,  and  intends  to  water  his  sheepe 
With  his  owne  teares ;   ha,  ha,  ha,  ha. 

Flo.     Dost  thou  see  any  thing  that  deserves  thy  laughter, 
Fond  swaine  ? 

AL     I  see  nothing  in  good  troth  but  you. 

Flo,     To  jeere  those  who  are  Fates  May-game 
Is  a  redoubled  fault ;    for  'tis  both  sinne, 
And  folly  too ;   our  life  is  so  uncertaine 
Thou  canst  not  promise  that  thy  mirth  shall  last 
To  morrow,  and  not  meet  with  any  rubbe. 
Then  thou  mayst  aft  that  part,  to  day  thou  laugh'st  at. 

AL     I  aft  a  part?    it  must  be  in  a  Comedy  then, 
I  abhorre  Tragedyes :    besides,  I  never 
Praftiz'd  this  posture  ;    Hey  ho  !    woe,  alas ! 
Why  doe  I  live  ?   my  musick  is  my  sighes  ^ 
Whilst  teares  keepe  time. 

Flo.     You  take  too  great  a  licence  to  your  wit; 
Wit,  did  I  say  ?   I  meane,  that  which  you  thinke  so. 
And  it  deserves  my  pitty,  more  then  anger. 
Else  you  should  find,  that  blowes  are  heavier  farre 
Then  the  most  studied  jests  vou  can  throw  at  me. 

AL     Faith  it  will  be  but  labour  lost  to  beat  mee, 

X26 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

All  will  not  teach  me  how  to  a£l  this  part; 
Woe's  me !  alas !  I'me  a  dull  rogue,  and  so 
Shall  never  leame  it. 

Fb.     You're  immannerlv 
To  talke  thus  sawcily  witn  one  you  know  not, 
Nay,  hardly  ever  saw  before,  be  gone 
And  leave  me  as  you  foimd  me,  my  worst  thoughts 
Are  better  company  then  thou. 

AL     Enjoy  them  then. 
Here's  no  body  desires  to  rob  you  of  them. 
I  would  have  left  your  company  without  bidding, 
'Tis  not  so  pleasant,  I  remember  well. 
When  I  had  spent  all  my  money,  I  stood  thus 
And  therefore  hate  the  posture  ever  since. 
D'yee  heare  ?  I'me  going  to  a  wedding  now ; 
If  you  'ave  a  mind  to  dance,  come  along  with  me, 
Bring  your  hard-hearted  Mistris  with  you  too. 
Perhaps  I  may  perswade  her,  and  tell  her 
Your  Musick's  sighes,  and  that  your  teares  keepe  time. 
Will  you  not  goe?   Farewell  then,  good  Tragicall  aftor. 
Now  have  at  thee  Melamus  \    For  Uis  but  a  folly^  &c.         Exit, 

Fb.     Thou  art  a  Prophet,  Shepheard ;   She  is  hard 
As  rocks  which  sufifer  the  continuall  siege 
Of  Sea  and  wind  against  them ;   but  I  will 
Win  her  or  lose  (which  I  should  gladly  doe) 
My  sclfe :    my  selfe  ?  why  so  I  have  already : 
Ho !    who  hath  found  Florellus  ?   he  is  lost. 
Lost  to  himselfe,  and  to  his  parents  likewise, 
(Who  having  miss'd  me,  doe  by  this  time  search 
Each  corner  for  to  find  me)  6h  !    Florellus^ 
Thou  must  be  wicked,  or  for  ever  wretched. 
Hard  is  the  Physick,  harder  the  disease. 

Finis  A£fus  Quarti, 


127 


A<9:us  V.     Scsena  I. 

Enter  Alupisy  PaUemony  £gon, 

PA.     The  Gods  convert  these  omens  into  good : 
And  mocke  my  feares ;   thrice  in  the  very  threshold, 
Without  its  Masters  leave  my  foot  stood  still, 
Thrice  in  the  way  it  stumbled. 

Al,     Thrice,  and  thrice 
You  were  a  foole  then  for  observing  it. 
Why  these  are  follyes  the  young  yeares  of  Truga 
Did  hardly  know  ;   are  they  not  vanisht  yet  ? 

Pa.     Blame  not  my  feare :    that's  Cupids  Usher  alwayes ; 
Though  Hylace  were  now  in  my  embraces, 
I  should  halfe  doubt  it. 

A  I.     If  you  chanc'd  to  stumble. 

Mg.     Let  him  enjoy  his  madnesse,  the  same  liberty 
Hee'le  grant  to  you,  when  you're  a  Lover  too. 

Al.     I,  when  I  am,  he  may;   yet  if  I  were  one 
I  should  not  be  dismay 'd  because  the  threshold — 

Pa.     Alas  I    that  was  not  all,  as  I  came  by 
The  oake  to  Faunus  sacred,  where  the  shepheards 
Exercise  rurall  sports  on  Festivalls, 
On  that  trees  toppe  an  inauspicious  Crow 
Foretold  some  ill  to  happen. 

Mg.     And  because  Crowes 
Foretell  wet  weather,  you  interpret  it 
The  raine  of  your  owne  eyes ;   but  leave  these  tricks 
And  let  me  advise  you. 

Melarnus  speaking  to  Hylace  within  his  dore. 

Mel.     Well  come,  no  matter  for  that;  I  doc  beleeve  thee; 
Girle 
And  would  they  have  such  sport  with  vexing  me ! 
But's  no  matter  for  that;   He  vex  them  for't, 

128 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

I  know  your  fieiy  lover  will  be  here  strait, 

But  I  shall  coole  him ;   but  come,  no  matter  for  that  I 

Goe  get  you  in,  for  I  doe  see  them  comming. 

JEg.     Here  comes  Melamus. 

Pa.     Hee  lookes  cheerefiilly,  I  hope  all's  well? 

Mg.     Melamu$j  opportunely :   we  were  a  comming 
Just  now  unto  you. 

MeL     Yes,  very  likely  ;  would  you  have  spoken  with  me  ? 

£g.     Spoken  with  vou? 
Why,  are  you  madde  r   have  you  forgot  your  promise  ? 

MeL     My  promise  ?   oh  !   'tis  true,  I  said  indeed 
I  would  goe  with  vou  to  day  to  sell  some  kine, 
^tay  but  a  little,  lie  be  ready  streight. 

Pa.    I  am  amaz'd;   Good  £gon  speake  to  him. 

Al.     By  this  good  light, 
I  see  no  likelyhood  of  any  mariage. 
Except  betwixt  the  Kine  and  oxen.     Harke  you  hither; 
A  rotte  upon  your  beasts;   is  Hylace  ready? 

Mel.     It's  no  matter  for  that  f  who's  there  ?     Alupis  ? 
Give  me  thy  hand  'faith,  thou'rt  a  merry  fellow, 
I  have  not  seene  thee  here  these  many  dayes, 
But  now  I  thinke  on't,  it's  no  matter  for  that  neither. 

Al.    Thy  memory's  fled  away  sure  with  thy  wit. 
Was  not  I  here  lesse  then  an  houre  agoe 
With  JEgon^  when  you  made  the  match  ? 

Mel.     Oh  !   then  you'le  goe  along  with  us. 
Faith  doe;   for  you  will  make  us  very  merry. 

Al.     I  shall,  if  you  thus  make  a  foole  of  me. 

Mel.     Oh  no !   you'le  make  you  sport  with  vexing  me. 
But  mimi ;   no  matter  for  that  neither :   there 
I  bob'd  him  privatly,  I  thinke.  A%ide. 

JEg.     Come,  what's  the  businesse? 

Al.     The  businesse?   why  hee's  madde,  beyond  the  cure 
Of  all  the  herbes  grow  in  Anticyra. 

JEg.     You  see  we  have  not  fayl'd  our  word  MelarnuSj 
I  and  my  sonne  are  come. 

MeL     Your  son  !   goodlack  ! 
I  thought,  I  sweare,  you  had  no  other  child 
Besides  your  Daughter  Bellula. 

JEgm.     Nay,  then 

c  II.  I  129 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

I  see  you  are  disposM  to  make  us  fooles, — 
Did  not  I  tell  you  that  'twas  my  intent 
To  adopt  PaUemon  for  my  son  and  heire? 

Al.     Did  not  you  examine 
Whether  he  would  leave  him  all,  lest  that  he  should 
Adopt  some  other  heire  to  the  cheese-presses. 
The  milking-pailes,  and  creame-boules ?    did  you  not? 

Mel.     In  troth   'tis  well ;    but  where  is  Bellula  f 

£gon.     Nay ;   prithee  leave  these  tricks,  and  tell  me 
What  you  intend,  is  Hylace  ready? 

Mel.     Ready?   what  else?   shee's  to  be  married  presently: 
To  a  young  shepheard,  but's  no  matter  for  that. 

Pa.     That's  I,  hence  feares ; 
Attend  upon  the  infancie  of  love. 
She's  now  mine  owne. 

A  I.    Why  1 ;  did  not  the  crow  on  the  oake  foretell  you  this? 

Mel.     Mylacfy  Hylace^  come  forth, 
Here's  some  are  come  to  dance  at  your  wedding. 
And  they're  welcome.  {Enter  Hylace.) 

Pa.     The  light  appeares,  just  like  the  rising  Sun, 
When  o're  yon  hill  it  pccpes,  and  with  a  draught 
Of  morning  dew  salutes  the  day,  how  fast 
The  night  of  all  my  sorrow  flycs  away. 
Quite  banisht  with  her  sight  ! 

Hy.     Did  you  call  for  mc? 

Mel.     Is  Uarmetas  come  ?   Fy,  how  slow  he  is 
At  such  a  time  ?    but  it's  no  matter  for  that ; 
Well  get  you  in,  and  prepare  to  welcome  him. 

Pa.     Will  you  be  gone  so  quickly,  6h  !    bright  Hylace 
That  blessed  houre  by  me  so  often  begg'd. 
By  you  so  oft  deny'd,  is  now  approaching. 

Mel.     What,  how  now?    what  doe  you  kisse  her?     {Exit 
If  Damatas  were  here,  he  would  grow  jealous,  Hylace.) 

But  'tis  a  parting  kisse,  and  so  in  manners 
She  cannot  deny  it  you ;    but  it's  no  matter  for  that. 
A  I.     How  ? 

Mel.     What  doe  you  wonder  at  ? 
Why  doe  you  thinke  as  soone  as  they  are  maried, 
Damatas  such  a  foole,  to  let  his  wife 
Be  kist  by  every  body? 

130 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Pa.     How  now?     Danuetasf 
Why  what  hath  he  to  doe  with  her? 

Mil    Ha,  ha  I 
What  hath  the  husband  then  to  doe  with's  wife? 
Good :   *tis  no  matter  for  that  though ;   he  knowes  what. 

Mg,     You  meane  PaUtmon  sure,  ha,  doe  you  not  ? 

MeL     Tis  no  matter  for  that,  what  I  meane,  I  meane; 
Well,  rest  ye  merry  gentlemen,  I  must  in. 
And  see  my  Daughters  wedding,  if  you  please 
To  dance  with  us ;   Damatas  sure  will  thanke  yee ; 
Pray  bring  your  son  and  heire  Palamon  with  you, 
Belbild's  cast  away,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
And  the  poore  foole  Melamus  must  be  cheated. 
But  it's  no  matter  for  that ;   how  now  Alupis  ? 
I  thought  you  would  have  had  most  excellent  sport 
With  abusing  poore  Melamus  ?   that  same  coxcombe. 
For  hee's  a  foole ;   but  it's  no  matter  for  that, 
JEgm  hath  cheated  him,  PaLemon  is 
Maried  to  Hylace^  and  one  Alupis 
Doth  nothing  else  but  vex  him,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
But  it's  no  matter  for  that;    farewell  gentles, 
Or  if  yee'le  come  and  dance,  yee  shall  be  welcome, 
Will  you  PaLemon  ?   'tis  your  Mistris  wedding. 
I  am  a  foole,  a  coxcombe,  guU'd  on  every  side, 
No  matter  for  that  though;   what  I  have  done,  I  have  done! 
Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Exit. 

JEg.     How  now?  what  are  you  both  dumbe?  both  thunder- 
^  strooke  ? 

This  was  your  plot  Alupis. 

A  I.    I'le  begin. 
May  his  sheepe  rotte,  and  he  for  want  of  food 
Be  forc't  to  eat  them  then ;   may  every  man 
Abuse  him,  and  yet  he  not  have  the  wit 
To  abuse  any  man,  may  he  never  speake 
More  sence  then  he  did  now ;   and  may  he  never 
Bee  ridde  of  his  old  wife  Truga^  may  his  sonne 
In  Law  be  a  more  famous  Cuckold  made 
Then  any  one  I  knew  when  I  liv'd  in  the  City. 

Pa.     Foole  as  thou  art,  the  Sun  shall  lose  his  course. 
And  brightnesse  too,  ere  Hjlaa  her  chastity. 

12  131 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Oh  no  I   yet  Gods,  may  she  be  ha.pp7  alwayes, 
Happy  in  the  embraces  of  Damatas; 
And  that  shall  be  some  comfort  to  my  Ghost 
When  I  am  dead ;  and  dead  I  shall  be  shortly, 
/t/.     May  a  disease  seize  upon  all  his  Cattle, 
And  a  forre  worse  on  him ;   till  he  at  last 
Bee  carried  to  some  Hospitall  i'the  City, 
And  there  kiJl'd  by  a  Chirurgion  for  experience. 
And  when  hee's  gone,  lie  wish  this  good  thing  for  him, 

May  the  earth  lye  gently  on  him that  the  do^jes 

May  teare  him  up  the  easier. 

Mg.     A  curse  upon  thee  ! 
And  upon  me  for  trusting  thy  fond  counsels  I 
Was  this  your  cunning  trick  ?   why  thou  hast  wounded 
My  conscience  and  niy  reputation  too, 
With  what  face  can  I  lookc  on  the  other  Swaines? 
Or  who  will  ever  trust  me,  who  have  broke 
My  faith  thus  openly.' 

Pa.     A  curse  upon  thee, 
This  is  the  second  time  that  thy  perswasions 
Made  me  not  only  foole,  but  wicked  too ; 
I  should  have  dyed  in  quiet  else,  and  knowne 
No  other  wound,  but  that  of  her  denyall ; 
Go  now,  and  bragge  how  thou  hast  us'd  Pa/temm, 
But  yet  me  thinkes  you  might  have  chose  some  other 
For  subje^  of  your  mirth,  not  me. 

jEg,     Nor  me. 

A/.     And  yet  if  this  had  prospered  (as  I  wonder 
Who  it  should  be,  betray'd  us,  since  we  three 
And  Truga  only  knew  it,  whom,  if  she 
Betray'd  us,  I — )  if  this,  I  say,  had  prospered. 
You  would  have  hugg'd  me  for  inventing  it. 
And  him  for  putting  it  in  aft ;   foolish  men 
That  doe  not  marke  the  thing  but  the  event  I 
Your  judgements  hang  on  Fortune,  not  on  reason. 

£g.     Dost  thou  upbraid  us  too? 

Pa.     First  make  us  wretched, 
And  then  laugh  at  us?   beleeve,  Alupis, 
Thou  shalt  not  long  have  cause  to  boast  thy  vilUny. 

Al,     My  villany  ?   doe  what  yee  can :   you're  foolet, 
13a 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

And  there's  an  end;  He  talke  with  you  no  more, 
I  had  as  good  speake  reason  to  the  wind 
As  you,  that  can  but  hisse  at  it. 

JEg.     Wee  will  doe  more ;   PaLemon^  come  away, 
He  hath  wrong'd  both ;   and  both  shall  satisfie. 

AL     Which  he  will  never  doe ;   nay,  goe  and  plod, 
Your  two  wise  braines  will  invent  certainely 
Politique  ginnes  to  catch  me  in.  Exeunt, 

And  now  have  at  thee  TrugOy  if  I  find 
That  thou  art  guiltie ;   mum, — I  have  a  ring. — 
PaLtmofiy  Mgotij  Hylace^  Melarnus 
Are  all  against  me ;   no  great  matter :    hang  care. 

For  *tis  but  a  folly^  &c.  Exit. 

Enter  Bellula. 

This  way  my  CalUdorus  went,  what  chance 

Hath  snatchM  him  bota  my  sight?   how  shall  I  find  him? 

How  shall  I  find  my  selfe,  now  I  have  lost  him  ? 

With  yee  my  feet  and  eyes  I  will  not  make 

The  smallest  truce,  till  yee  have  sought  him  out.  Exit. 

Enter  Callidorus  and  Florellus. 

Come,  now  your  businesse. 

Fh.     •Tis  a  fatall  one. 
Which  will  almost  as  much  shame  me  to  speake. 
Much  more  to  a£l,  as  'twill  fright  you  to  heare  it. 

Cat.     Fright  me?    it  must  be  then  some  wickednesse, 
I  am  accustom'd  so  to  misery, 
That  cannot  do't. 

Fb.     Oh  !    Tis  a  sinne  young  man, 
A  sinne  which  every  one  shall  wond[e]r  at. 
None  not  condemne,  if  ever  it  be  knowne: 
Me  thinkes  my  bloud  shrinkes  back  into  my  veines. 
And  my  affrighted  hayres  are  turn'd  to  bristles. 
Doe  not  my  eyes  creepe  backe  into  their  cells; 
As  if  they  seem'd  to  wish  for  thicker  darknesse. 
Then  either  night  or  death  to  cover  them? 
Doth  not  my  &ce  looke  black  and  horrid  too? 
As  black  and  horrid  as  my  thoughts?   ha!    tell  me. 

133 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cal.     I  am  a  novice  in  all  villanyeSi 
If  your  intents  be  such,  dismisse  me,  pray, 
My  nature  is  more  easie  to  discover 
Then  helpe  you ;   so,  Farewell. 

Flo.     Yet  stay  a  little  longer;  you  must  stay: 
You  are  an  aflor  in  this  Tragedy. 

CaL     What  would  you  doc? 

Flo,     Alas  I   I  would  doe  nothing ;   but  I  must — 

Cal,     What  must  you  doc? 

Flo,     I  must. — Love  thou  hast  got  the  viftory — 
Kill  thee. 

Cal,     Who?   me?   you  doc  but  jest, 
I  should  believe  you,  if  I  could  tell  how  ^ 

To  frame  a  cause,  or  thinke  on  any  injury 
Worth  such  a  large  revenge,  which  I  have  done  you, 

Flo,     Oh  no  I   there's  all  the  wickednesse,  they  may  seeme 
To  find  excuse  for  their  abhorred  h£t ; 
That  kill  when  wrongs,  and  anger  urgeth  them ; 
Because  thou  art  so  good,  so  afitable. 
So  full  of  graces,  both  of  mind  and  body, 
Therefore  I  kill  thee,  wilt  thou  know  it  plainely, 
Because  whilst  thou  art  living,  Bellula 
Protested  she  would  never  be  anothers. 
Therefore  I  kill  thee. 

Call.     Had  I  beene  your  rivall 
You  might  have  had  some  cause ;   cause  did  I  say  ? 
You  might  have  had  pretence  for  such  a  villany : 
He  who  unjustly  kills  is  twice  a  murtherer. 

Flo,     He  whom  love  bids  to  kill  is  not  a  murtherer. 

Cal,     Call  not  that  love  that's  ill,  'tis  only  fury. 

Flo,     Fury  in  ills  is  halfc  excusable : 
Therefore  prepare  thy  selfe ;   if  any  sinnc 
(Though  I  beleeve  thy  hot  and  flourishing  youth 
As  innocent  as  other  mens  nativities) 
Hath  flung  a  spot  upon  they  purer  conscience 
Wash  it  in  some  few  teares. 

Call,     Are  you  resolv'd  to  be  so  cruell? 

Flo,     I  must,  or  be  as  cruell  to  my  selfe. 

Call,     As  sick  men  doe  their  beds,  so  have  I  yet 
Injoy'd  my  selfe,  with  little  rest,  much  trouble : 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

I  have  beene  made  the  Ball  of  Love  and  Fortune, 
And  am  almost  worne  out  with  often  playing. 
And  therefore  I  would  enter  taine  mj  death 
As  some  good  friend  whose  comming  I  expedted ; 
Were  it  not  that  my  parents — 

Fb.     Here ;   see,  1  doe  not  come  {Drawes  two  swords 

Like  a  foule  murtherer  to  intrap  you  falsly,      from  under  his 
Take  your  own  choyse,  and  then  defend  your  selfe.        garment 

CaL  Tis  nobly  done ;  and  since  it  must  be  so,  and  offers 
Although  my  strength  and  courage  call  me  woman  one  to 
I  will  not  dye  like  sheepe  without  resistance,  Call.) 

If  innocence  be  guard  sufficient, 
Pme  sure  he  cannot  hurt  me. 

Fb.     Are  you  ready?   the  fatall  Cuckow  on  yon  spreading 
tree 
Hath  sounded  out  your  dying  knell  already. 

CaL    I  am. 

Fh.     Tis  well,  and  I  could  wish  thy  hand 
Were  strong  enough ;   'tis  thou  dcscrvest  the  vidtory. 
Nay,  were  not  th'hope  of  Belhila  ingraven 
In  sdl  my  thoughts,  I  would  my  selfe  play  booty 
Against  my  selfe ;   But  Bel/ula^^omc  on.  Fight. 

Enter  Philistus. 

This  is  the  wood  adjoyning  to  the  Farme, 

Where  I  gave  order  unto  Clariana 

My  sister,  to  remaine  till  my  returne ; 

Here  'tis  in  vaine  to  seeke  her,  yet  who  knowes  ? 

Though  it  be  in  vaine  He  seeke;   to  him  that  doth 

Propose  no  journeys  end,  no  path's  amisse. 

Why   how   now  ?    what   doe   you   meane  ?    for  shame   part 

Shepheards, 
I  thought  you  honest  shepheards,  had  not  had  Sees  them 

So  much  of  Court,  and  Citie  follies  in  you.  fighting. 

Fb.     *Tis  Philistus ;   I  hope  he  will  not  know  me. 
Now  I  begin  to  see  how  black  and  horrid 
My  attempt  was;   how  much  unlike  Fbrellus^ 
Thankes  to  the  juster  Deityes  for  declining 
From  both  the  danger,  and  from  me  the  sin. 

^35 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Phi.    'Twould  be  a  wrong  to  charity  to  dismisse  yee 
Before  I  see  you  friends,  give  me  your  weapons. 

Ca/.     'Tis  he ;   why  doe  I  doubt  ?   most  willingly, 
And  my  selfe  too,  best  man ;   now  kill  me  shepheard — 

Phi,     What  doe  you  meane  ?  {Summii) 

Rise,  prithee  rise ;   sure  you  have  wounded  him. 

Enter  Bellula. 

Deceive  me  not  good  eyes;   what  doe  I  see? 
My  Callidorus  dead  ?   'Tis  impossible  ! 
Who  is  it  that  lyes  slaine  there?   arc  you  dumbe? 
Who  is't  I  pray? 

Flo,     Faire  Mistris — 

Bel,     Pish,  feire  Mistris, — 
I  aske  who  'tis  ;    if  it  be  Callidorus — 

Phi.     Was  his  name  Callidorus}   it  is  strange. 

Bel,     You  are  a  villaine,  and  you  too  a  villaine, 
Wake  Callidorus  J  wake,  it  is  thy  Bellula 
That  calls  thee,  wake,  it  is  thy  Bellula  \ 
Why  Gentlemen  ?   why  shepheard  ?    fye  for  shame. 
Have  you  no  charity  ?   6  my  Callidorus ! 
Speake  but  one  word — 

Cal,     'Tis  not  well  done  to  trouble  me. 
Why  doe  you  envy  me  this  little  rest  ? 

Bel,     No ;   I  will  follow  thee.  {Sweunds.) 

Flo.     O  helpe,  helpc  quickly. 
What  doe  you  meane?   your  Callidorus  lives. 

Bel.     Callidorus ! 

Flo.     And  will  be  well  immediatly,  take  courage, 
Lookc  up  a  little :    wretched  as  I  am, 
I  am  the  cause  of  all  this  ill. 

Phi.  What  shall  we  doe?  I  have  a  sister  dwells 
Close  by  this  place,  let's  hast  to  bring  them  thither. 
But  lets  be  sudden. 

Flo.     As  wing'd  lightning  is. 
Come  Bellula  in  spite  of  Fortune  now 
I  doe  embrace  thee. 

Phi.     I  did  protest  without  my  Callidora 
Ne're  to  returne,  but  pitty  hath  o'recome. 

136 


\ 


LOVES    RIDDLE 

Bet.     Where  am  1  ? 

FU.     Where  I  could  alwa^  wish  thee :    in  those  annes 
Which  would  enfold  thee  with  more  subtill   knots, 
Then  amorous  Ivy,  whilst  it  hugges  the  oake. 

CaL     Where  doe  ye  beare  me  ?    is  PMiitut  well  ? 

How  should  he  kjiow  my  name  ?  'tis  to  me  a  riddle. 
Nay  Shepheard  find  another  time  to  court  in, 
Make  hast  now  with  your  burthen. 

Fie.     With  what  ease  should  I  goe  alwaies  were  I  burthencd 
(thus !     Exeunt 

Enter  Apbron. 


She  told  me  she  was  sister  to  Philhlus, 

Who  having  mist  the  beauteous  Ca/iidara, 

Hath  undertooke  a  long,  and  hopelessc  journey 

To  find  her  out;    then  Callidora's  fled. 

Without  her  parents  knowledge,  and  who  knowes 

When  shec'le  returne,  or  if  she  doc,  what  then  ? 

Lambes  will  make  peace,  and  joync  themselves  with  wolves 

Ere  she  with  me,  worse  then  a  wolfe  to  her: 

Besides,  how  durst  I  undertake  to  court  her  ? 

How  dare  I  lookc  upon  her  after  this .' 

Foole  as  I  am,  I  will  forget  her  quite, 

And  Clariana  shall  hence-forth — but  yet  I 

How  feire  she  was  !    what  then  ?    so's  Clariana  ; 

What  graces  did  she  dart  on  all  beholders? 

Shee  did ;    but  so  does  Clariana  too, 

Shee  was  as  pure  and  white  as  Parian  marble. 

What  then .'     Shee  was  as  hard  too  j    Clariana  \ 

Is  pure  and  white  as  Eridna's  Doves, 

And  is  as  soft,  as  gallesse  too  as  they, 

Her  pitty  sav'd  my  life,  and  did  restore 

My  wandring  senses,  if  I  should  not  love  her, 

I  were  farre  madder  now,  then  when  she  found   me, 

I  will  goc  in  and  render  up  myselfe, 

For  her  most  faithful!  servant. 

Wonderfull  !  Exit.     Enter  againe. 

Shee  has  lockt  me  in,  and  keepcs  mc  here  her  prisoner : 

Id  these  two  chambers;   what  can  she  Intend? 

'37 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


No  matter,  she  intends  no  hurt  Tme  sure, 
rie  patiently  expe£l  her  comming  to  me. 

Enter  Demophily  Spodaioj  Clarianaj  Flortlhi^ 
Callidora^  Bellula^  Philistus. 


Exit. 


Dem,     My  Daughter  found  againe,  and  son  returnd  ! 
Ha,  ha !    me  thinkes  it  makes  me  young  againe. 
My  Daughter  and  my  Son  meet  here  together  ! 
Philistus  with  them  too  !   that  we  should  come 
To  grieve  with  Clarianoy  and  find  her  here. 
Nay,  when  we  thought  we  had  lost  Florellus  too 
To  find  them  both,  me  thinkes  it  makes  me  young  againe. 

Spo.     I  thought  I  never  should  have  seene  thee  more 
My  Callidora  \   come  wench,  now  let's  heare. 
The  story  of  your  flight  and  life  in  the  woods. 

Phi,     Doe  happy  Mistris  for  the  recordation. 
Of  forepast  ils,  makes  us  the  sweetlier  rellish 
Our  present  good. 

Cal.     Of  Aphrons  love  to  me,  and  my  antipathy 
Towards  him,  there's  none  here  ignorant,  you  know  too 
How  guarded  with  his  love,  or  rather  fury. 
And  some  few  men  he  broke  into  our  house 
With  resolution  to  make  me  the  prey 
Of  his  wild  lust. 

Sp,     I,  there's  a  villaine  now ;   oh  I   that  I  had  him  here. 

Cla,     Oh  !   say  not  so : 
The  crymes  which  Lovers  for  their  Mistris  aft 
Beare  both  the  weight  and  stampe  of  piety. 

Dem,     Come  girle ;    goe  on,  goe  on.     His  wild  lust — 

Cla,     What  sudden  feare  shooke  me,  you  may  imagine, 
What  should  I  doe?   you  both  were  out  of  towne, 
And  most  of  the  servants  at  that  time  gone  with  you. 
I  on  the  sudden  found  a  corner  out. 
And  hid  my  selfe,  till  they  wearied  with  searching, 
Quitted  the  house,  but  fearing  lest  they  should 
Attempt  the  same  againe  ere  your  returne, 
I  tooke  with  me  money  and  other  necessaries; 
And  in  a  sute  my  Brother  left  behind 
Disguis'd  my  selfe,  thus  to  the  woods  I  went, 

138 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Where  meeting  with  an  honest  merrv  Swaine, 
I  by  his  helpe  was  furnisht,  and  made  Shepheard. 

Sp.     Nay,  I  must  needs  say  for  her,  she  was  alwayes 
A  witty  wench. 

Dim.     Pish,  pish  :    And  made  a  Shepheard — 

CaL     It  hapned  that  this  gentle  Shephea[r]desse, 
(I  can  attribute  it  to  nought  in  me 
DeservM  so  much)  began  to  love  me. 

Phi.     Why  so  did  all  besides  lie  warrant  you, 
Nor  can  I  blame  them,  though  they  were  my  rivall. 

CaL     Another  Shepheard  with  as  much  desire 
Wooed  her  in  vaine,  as  she  in  vaine  wooed  me. 
Who  seeing  that  no  hope  was  left  for  him, 
Whilst  I  enjoy*d  this  life  t'enjoy  his  Belluloy 
(For  by  that  name  she's  knowne)  sought  to  take  me 
Out  of  the  way  as  a  partition 
Betwixt  his  love  and  him,  whilst  in  the  fields 
Wee  two  were  strugling,  (him  his  strength  defending. 
And  me  my  innocence.) 

Flo.     I  am  asham'd  to  looke  upon  their  faces. 
What  shall  I  say?   my  guilt's  above  excuse. 

CaL     PhiSstus  ;   as  if  the  (jods  had  all  agreed 
To  make  him  mine,  just  at  the  nick  came  in 
And  parted  us,  with  sudden  joy  I  sounded. 
Which  BiUula  perceiving  (for  even  then 
Shee  came  to  seeke  me)  sudden  griefe  did  force 
The  same  e£Fe£t  from  her,  which  joy  from  me. 
Hither  they  brought  us  both,  in  this  amazement. 
Where  being  straight  recovered  to  our  selves, 
I  found  you  here,  and  you  your  dutifull  Daughter. 

Spo.     The  (jods  be  thankt.     Dem.     Goe  on. 

CaL     Nay,  you  have  all  Sir. 

Dem.     Where's  that  Shepheard  ?     Flo.   Here.     Dem.    Here, 
where  ? 

Fb.     Here,  your  unhappy  Sonne's  the  man ;   for  her 
I  put  on  Sylvan  weeds,  for  her  faire  sake 
I  would  have  stayn'd  my  innocent  hands  in  bloud. 
Forgive  me  all,  'twas  not  a  sin  of  malice, 
*Twas  not  begot  by  lust,  but  sacred  love ; 
The  cause  must  be  the  excuse  for  the  e£k£l. 

139 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Dtm.    You  should  have  us'd  some  other  meanes,  FUrtlha. 

Cal.     Alas !   'twas  the  Gods  will  Sir,  without  that 
I  had  beene  undiscovered  yet ;   Philhtut 
Wandrcd  too  foire,  my  Brother  yet  a  Shepheard, 
You  groaning  for  our  losse,  upon  this  wheele 
All  our  felicity  is  turn'd. 

5*.     Alas  I   you  have  forgot  the  power  of  love,  sweet-heart 

Dem.     Be  patient  Son,  and  temper  your  desire, 
You  shall  not  want  a  wife  that  wilt  perhaps 
Please  you  as  well,  I'mc  sure  befit  you  better. 

FU.     They  marry  not,  but  sell  themselves  t'a  wife, 
Whom  the  large  dowry  tempts,  and  take  more  pleasure 
To  buggc  the  wealthy  baggcs  then  her  that  brought  tbeOL 
Let  them  whom  nature  bestowcs  nothing  on 
Seeke  to  patch  up  their  want  by  parents  plenty ; 
The  beautifull,  the  chast,  the  vertuous, 
Her  selfe  alone  is  portion  to  her  selfe. 

Enter  /Sgon. 

By  your  leave ;   I  come  to  seeke  a  Daughter. 

0  1   are  you  there,  'tis  well. 
Fh.     This  is  her  Father, 

1  doe  conjure  you  Father,  by  the  love 
Which  parents  bcarc  their  children,  to  make  up 
The  match  betwixt  us  now,  or  if  you  will  not 
Send  for  your  friends,  prepare  a  coflin  for  me 
And  let  a  grave  be  dig'd,  I  wilt  be  happy, 

Or  else  not  know  my  misery  to  morrow  j 

Sf».     You  doe  not  thinke  what  ill  may  happen  husband, 
Come,  let  him  have  her,  you  have  meanes  enough 
For  hiro,  the  wench  is  bire,  and  if  her  face 
Be  not  a  flatterer,  of  a  noble  mind, 
Although  not  stocke. 

/Eg.     I  doe  not  like  this  stragling,  come  along, 
By  vour  leave  Gentlemen,  I  hope  you  will 
Pardon  my  bold  intrusion. 

CL     You're  very  welcome. 
What  are  you  going  Btilula  i   pray  stay. 
Though  Nature  contradicts  our  love,  I  hope 
That  I  may  have  your  friendship. 
140 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

jEg.     BiUula ! 

Bel.     My  father  calls ;   fivewell ;   your  name,  and  memory 
In  spite  of  Fate,  Fie  love,  farewell. 

Flo.     Would  you  be  gone,  and  not  bestow  one  word 
Upon  your  fiuthfiill  servant?  doe  not  all 
My  griefes  and  troubles  for  your  sake  sustaynd, 
Deserve,  Farewell  Fhnllm?    Bel.   Fare  you  well  then. 

Flo.     Alas !   how  can  I,  Sweet,  unlesse  you  stay, 
Or  I  goe  with  you?   you  were  pleas'd  ere  while 
To  say  you  honoured  me  with  the  next  place 
To  CalUdorus  in  your  heart,  then  now 
I  should  be  first :    doe  you  repent  your  sentence  ? 
Or  can  that  tongue  sound  lesse  then  Oracle? 

BeL     Perhaps  I  am  of  that  opinion  still. 
But  must  obey  my  Father. 

Mg.     Why  Beliila?  would  you  have  ought  with  her  Sir? 

FU.     Yes,  I  would  have  her  selfe ;   if  constancy 
And  love  be  meritorious,  I  deserve  her. 
Why  Father,  Mother,  Sister,  Gentlemen, 
Will  you  plead  for  me? 

Dem.     Since't  must  be  so.  Tie  beare  it  patiently, 
Shepheard  you  see  how  much  our  son  is  taken 
With  your  faire  Daughter,  therefore  if  you  thinke 
Him  fitting  for  her  husband  speake,  and  let  it 
Be  made  a  match  immediatly,  we  shall 
£xpe£l  no  other  dowrie  then  her  vertue. 

JEg.     Which  only  I  can  promise ;   for  her  fortune 
Is  beneath  you  so  farre,  that  I  could  almost 
Suspedt  your  words,  but  that  you  seeme  more  noble. 
How  now,  what  say  you  Girle? 

Bel.     I  only  doe  depend  upon  your  will. 

^g.     And  De  not  be  an  enemy  to  thy  good  fortune. 
Take  her  Sir,  and  the  Gods  blesse  you. 

Flo.     With  greater  joy  then  I  would  take  a  Crowne. 

i//.     The  Gods  blesse  you. 

Fb.     They  have  don't  already. 

^g.     Lest  you  should  thinke  when  time,  and  oft  enjoying 
Hath  dul'd  the  point,  and  edge  of  your  afiedtion 
That  you  have  wrong'd  your  selfe  and  family. 
By  marying  one  whcKe  very  name,  a  Shepheardesse, 

141 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Might  fling  some  spot  upon  your  birth,  Tie  tell  70U, 
She  is  not  mine,  nor  borne  in  these  rude  woods. 

Flo.     How  !   you  speake  misty  wonders. 

jEg.     I  speake  truths  Sir, 
Some  fifteene  yeares  agoe,  as  I  was  walking 
I  found  a  Nurse  wounded,  and  groning  out 
Her  latest  spirit,  and  by  her  a  raire  child, 
And,  which  her  very  aressing  might  declare, 
Of  wealthy  parents,  as  soone  as  I  came  to  them 
I  as'kd  her  who  had  us*d  her  so  inhumanly : 
She  answered  Turkish  Pirats ;   and  withall 
Desired  me  to  looke  unto  the  child. 
For  'tis,  said  she,  a  Noblemans  of  Sicily^ 
His  name  she  would  have  spoke,  but  death  permitted  not. 
Her  as  I  could,  I  caused  to  be  buried. 
But  brought  home  the  little  Girle  with  me. 
Where  by  my  wives  perswasions  wee  agreed. 
Because  the  Gods  had  blest  us  with  no  issue. 
To  nourish  as  our  owne,  and  call  it  Bellula 
Whom  now  you  see,  your  wife,  your  Daughter. 

Spo.     Is't  possible  ?     Flo,     Her  manners  shew'd  her  noble. 

/Eg.     I  call  the  Gods  to  witnesse,  this  is  true. 
And  for  the  farther  testimony  of  it, 
I  have  yet  kept  at  home  the  furniture. 
And  the  rich  mantle  which  she  then  was  wrapt  in, 
Which  now  perhaps  may  serve  to  some  good  use 
Thereby  to  know  her  parents. 

Dem.     Sure  this  is  Aphrom  sister  then,  for  just 
About  the  time  he  mentions,  I  remember. 
The  governour  of  Pachinusy  then  his  Father 
Told  me  that  certaine  Pirats  of  Argter 
Had  broke  into  his  house,  and  stolne  from  thence 
With  other  things  his  Daughter,  and  her  Nurse, 
Who  being  after  taken,  and  executed. 
Their  last  confession  was,  that  they  indeed 
Wounded  the  Nurse,  but  she  fled  with  the  child. 
Whilst  they  were  busie  searching  for  more  prey. 
Whom  since  her  father,  neither  saw,  nor  heard  of. 

Cla.     Then  now  I'me  sure  Sir,  you  would  gladly  pardon 
The  rash  attempt  of  Aphroriy  for  your  Daughter, 

142 


LOVES   RIDDLE 

Since  fortune  hath  joyn'd,  both  of  you  by  kindred. 

Dim.     Most  willingly :    Spo.     I,  I,  alas !   'twas  love. 

Flo.     Where  should  wee  find  him  out  ? 

Cla.     He  save  that  labour.  Exit  Clariana. 

CaL     Where's  Hylaa  pray  shepheard  ?   and  the  rest 
Of  my  good  Silvan  friends  ?    me  thinkes  I  would, 
Faine  take  my  leave  of  them. 

Mg.     rie  fetch  them  hither. 
They're  not  farre  ofl^  and  if  you  please  to  helpe 
The  match  betwixt  Hylaa  and  PaLemotiy 
nPwould  be  a  good  deed,  De  goe  fetch  them.  Exit. 

Enter  Aphron^  Clariana. 

Ap.     Ha !   whether  have  you  led  me  Clariana  ? 
Some  steepy  mountaine  bury  me  alive, 
Or  rock  intombe  me  in  its  stony  intrayles, 
Whom  doe  I  see? 

Cla.     Why  doe  you  stare  my  Aphron? 
They  have  forgiven  all. 

Dem.     Come,  Aphron^  welcome. 
We  have  forgot  the  wrong  you  did  my  Daughter, 
The  name  of  love  hath  cover'd  all ;   this  is 
A  joyful!  day,  and  sacred  to  great  Hymen 
'Twere  sin  not  to  be  friends  with  all  men  now. 

&p.     Methinks,  I  have  much  adoe  to  forgive  the  rascall. 

{Aside.) 

Ap.     I  know  not  what  to  say  ;   doe  you  all  pardon  me  ? 
I  have  done  wrong  to  yee  all,  yea,  to  all  those 
That  have  a  share  in  vertue.     Can  yee  pardon  me  ? 

All.     Most  willingly. 

Apb.     Doe  you  say  so  faire  Virgin  \ 
You  I  have  injur'd  most :   with  love. 
With  sauc^  love,  which  I  henceforth  recall. 
And  will  looke  on  you  with  an  adoration, 
Not  with  desire  hereafter ;   tell  me,  pray. 
Doth  any  man  yet  call  you  his  ? 

Cal.     Yes;   Pbiliitm. 

Ap.     I  congratulate  it  Sir. 
The  Gods  make  yee  both  happy:   foole,  as  I  am, 

"43 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

You  are  at  the  height  already  of  felicity, 
To  which  there's  nothing  can  be  added  now, 
But  perpetuity }    you  shall  not  find  me 
Your  rivall  any  more,  though  I  confesse 
I  honor  her,  and  will  for  ever  doe  so. 
Clariana^  I  am  so  much  unworthy 
Of  thy  love.     That— 

CI.     Goe  no  farther  Sir,  'tis  I  should  say  so 
Of  my  owne  selfe. 

Phi.     How  Sister?   are  you  two  so  neere  upon  a  match? 

Ap.     In  our  hearts  Sir, 
Wee  are  already  joyn'd,  it  may  be  though 
You  will  be  loth  to  have  unhappy  Aphron^ 
Stile  you  his  Brother? 

Phi.     No  Sir,  if  you  both 
Agree,  to  me  it  shall  not  be  unwelcome. 
W  hy  here's  a  day  indeed ;   sure  Hymen  now 
Meanes  to  spend  all  his  torches. 

Dem.     'Tis  my  Son  Sir, 
New  come  from  travaile,  and  your  Brother  now. 

Ap.     I  understand  not.     Dem.     Had  you  not  a  sister? 

Ap.     I  had  Sir ;   but  where  now  she  is  none  knowes, 
Besides  the  Gods. 

Dem.     Is't  not  about  some  fifteene  yeares  agoe 
Since  that  the  Nurse  scap't  with  her  from  the  hands 
Of  Turkish  Pyrats  that  beset  the  house  ? 

Ap.     It  is  Sir. 

Dem.     Your  sister  lives  then,  and  is  maried 
Now  to  Florellus ;   this  is  she,  you  shall  be 
Enform'd  of  all  the  circumstances  anon. 

Ap.     'Tis  impossible. 
I  shall  be  made  too  happy  on  the  sudden. 
My  Sister  found,  and  Clariana  mine  ! 
Come  not  too  thick  good  joyes,  you  will  oppresse  me. 

Enter  MelamuSy  Truga^  ^gon^  Hylace^  Palamon. 

Cal.     Shepheards  you're  welcome  all ;   though  I  have   lost 
Your  good  society,  I  hope  I  shall  not 
Your  friendship,  and  best  wishes. 

H4 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

£gm.     Nb^,  here's  wonders; 
Now  CalUdarut  is  found  out  a  woman, 
Btllula  not  taj  Daughter,  and  is  maried 
To  yonder  Gentleman,  for  which  I  intend 
To  doe  in  earnest  what  before  I  jested, 
To  adopt  PaUemtH  for  my  heire. 

-Mel.     Ha,  ha,  ha  I 
Come  it's  no  matter  for  that ;   doe  you  thinke 
To  chcate  me  once  againe  with  your  fine  tricks? 
No  matter  for  that  neither.     Ha,  ha,  ha  I 
Alas  I   shee's  maried  to  Damttai. 

Mg.     Nay,  that  was  your  plot  Mtlamut^ 
I  met  with  him,  and  he  denycs  it  to  me. 

Hj.     Henceforth   I    must    not    love,   but   honor   you — to 
{CaUidara, 

Mg.     By  all  the  Gods  I  will. 

r™.     He  will,  he  will ;   Duck. 

Mil.     Of  every  thing  ? 

£g.     Of  every  thing ;   I  call 
These  gentlemen  to  witncsse  here,  that  since 
I  have  no  child  to  care  for ;   I  will  make 
PaLrmsH  heire  to  those  small  meanes  the  Gods, 
Have  blest  me  with,  if  he  doe  marry  Hylace. 

MtU    Come  it's  no  matter  for  that,  I  scarce  belccve  you. 

Dtm.     Wee'le  be  his  suretyes. 

MiL    Hjlaci 
What  thinke  you  of  PaUmen  ?  can  you  love  him  ? 
H'as  our  consents,  but  it's  no  matter  for  that. 
If  he  doe  please  you,  speake,  or  now,  or  never. 

Hjl.     Why  doc  I  doubt  fond  Girle }  shee's  now  a  woman. 

Mtl.     No  matter  for  that,  what  you  doc,  doe  quickly. 

Hyl.    My  duty  binds  me  not  to  be  averse 
To  what  likes  you — 

Mel.     Why  take  her  then  Paltemen;   she's  yours  for  ever. 

Pa.     With  iirrc  more  joy 
Then  I  would  doe  the  wealth  of  both  the  Indyes, 
Thou  art  above  a  father  to  me,  Mgini. 
Ware  freed  from  misery  with  sense  of  joy, 
Wee  are  not  borne  so ;   oh !   my  Hylace, 
It  is  my  comfort  now  that  thou  wert  hard, 

en.  K  145 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  cruell  till  this  day^  delights  are  sweetest 
When  poysoned  with  the  trouble  to  attaine  them. 

Enter  Alupis. 

For  Uis  but  a  folly^  ice. 
By  your  leave,  I  come  to  seeke  a  woman. 
That  hath  outlived  the  memorie  of  her  youth, 
With  skin  as  black  as  her  teeth,  if  she  have  any. 
With  a  face  would  fright  the  Constable  and  his  watch 
Out  of  their  wits  (and  that's  easily  done  you'le  say)  if  they 
should  meet  her  at  midnight. 

0  !   are  you  there  ?   I  thought  I  smelt  you  somewhere ; 
Come  hither  my  she  Nestor,  pretty  Truga^ 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Duck. 

Tru.     Why  ?   are  you  not  asham'd  to  abuse  me  thus, 
Before  this  company  ? 

AL     I  have  something  more ; 

1  come  to  shew  the  ring  before  them  all  \ 
How  durst  you  thus  betray  us  to  Melarnus? 

Tru,     'Tis  false,  'twas  Hylace  that  over-heard  you ; 
Shee  told  me  so ;    but  they  are  maried  now. 

AL     What  doe  you  thinke  to  flam  me  ?   why  ho !    here's 
newes. 

Pa.     Alupis  art  thou  there?    forgive  my  anger, 
I  am  the  happiest  man  alive,  Alupis^ 
Hylace  is  mine,  here  are  more  wonders  too. 
Thou  shalt  know  all  anon. 

Tru.     Alupisj  give  me.     Al.     Well,  rather  then  be  troubled. 

/Eg.     Alupis  welcome,  now  w'are  friends  I  hope? 
Give  me  your  hand.     Mel.     And  me. 

Al.     With  all  my  heart, 
I'me  glad  to  see  yee  have  learn'd  more  wit  at  last. 

Cal.     This  is  the  Shepheard,  Father,  to  whose  care 
I  owe  for  many  favours  in  the  woods. 
You're  welcome  heartily ;   here's  every  body 
Payr'd  of  a  sudden ;   when  shall's  see  you  maried  ? 

A  I.     Me?   when  there  are  no  ropes  to  hang  my  selfe, 
No  rocks  to  breake  my  neck  downe;   I  abhorre 
To  live  in  a  perpetuall  Belfary ; 

146 


LOVES  RIDDLE 

I  never  couM  abide  to  have  a  Master, 
Much  lesse  a  Mistris,  and  I  will  not  many. 
Because,  Pie  ling  away  ibt  day. 

Far  'tis  tut  a  felly  to  bt  mtlanchally, 

lit  if  nurry  whilst  I  may. 
Pin.     You're  welcome  all,  and  I  desire  you  all 
To  be  my  guests  to  day ;  a  Wedding  dinner, 
Such  as  the  sudden  can  afibrd,  wee'le  have, 
Come  will  yec  walke  in  Gentlemen? 

Drm.     Yes^  yes, 
What  crosses  luve  yee  borne  before  yce  joyn'd  ! 
What  seas  past  through  before  yee  touch't  the  port ! 
Thus  Lovei^  doc,  ere  they  are  crown'd  by  Fates 
With  Palme,  the  tree  their  patience  imitates. 


Epilogue 

Spoken  by  Alupis. 

THe  Author  bid  me  tell  you — yaith^  I  havi 
Forgot  what  ^twas\   and  Prrn  a  very  slave 
If  I  know  what  to  say ;    but  only  thsSy 
nee  merry^  that  my  counsell  alwayes  is. 
Let  no  grave  man  knit  up  his  broWj  and  say^ 
^Tis  foolish  :   why  ?   'twas  a  Boy  made  the  Play, 
Nor  any  yet  of  those  that  sit  behind^ 
Because  he  goes  in  Plushy  be  of  his  mind. 
Let  none  his  Time^  or  his  spent  money  grieve^ 
Bee  merry;    Give  me  your  handsj  and  I*le  believe. 
Or  if  you  will  noty  Vie  goe  i«,  and  see^ 
If  I  can  turne  the  Authors  mindy  with  met 
To  sing  away  the  day, 
For  'tis  but  a  folly 
To  bee  melancholy 
Since  that  can't  mend  the  Play. 


1+8 


SATYRE. 


THE 


PURITAN 


AND   THE 


PAPIST. 


By  a  SchoUer  in  Oxford. 


[design] 


Prmted  in  the  Teare  M.DC.XLIIL 


A  Satyre. 

THE   PURITAN 

AND 

THE   PAPIST. 

SO  two  rude  wavesy  by  stormes  together  thrownc, 
Roare  at  each  other,  fight,  and  then  grow  om. 
Religion  is  a  Circle ;    men  contend, 
And  runne  the  round  in  dispute  without  end. 
Now  in  a  Circle  who  goe  contrary, 
Must  at  the  last  meet  of  necessity. 
The  Roman  to  advance  the  CathoUcke  cause 
Allowes  a  L/V,  and  calls  it  Pia  Fraus, 
The  Puritan  approves  and  does  the  same, 
Dislikes  nought  in  it  but  the  Latin  name. 
He  flowes  with  these  devises,  and  dares  ly 
In  very  deed^  in  truth^  and  verity. 
He  whines,  and  sighes  out  Liesy  with  so  much  ruth, 
As  if  he  griev'd,  'cause  he  could  neVe  speake  truth. 
Lies  have  possest  the  Presse  so,  as  their  due, 
'Twill  scarcely,  'I  feare,  henceforth  print  Bibles  true. 
Lies  for  their  next  strong  Fort  ha'th'  Pulpit  chose. 
There  throng  out  at  the  Preachers  mouthy  and  nose. 
And  how  e're  grosse,  are  certaine  to  beguile 
The  poore  Booke-turners  of  the  middle  Isle. 
Nay  to  th'  Almighty*s  selfe  they  have  beene  bold 
To  ly^  and  their  blasphemous  Minister  told 
They  might  say  false  to  Gody  for  if  they  were 
Beaten,  he  knew't  not,  for  he  was  not  there. 
But  Gody  who  their  great  thankefulnesse  did  see. 
Rewards  them  straight  with  another  Ficforiey 
Just  such  another  at  Brainceford  \   and  san's  doubt 
Will  weary  er't  be  long  their  gratitude  out. 

150 


THE   PURITAN  AND  THE   PAPIST 

Not  all  the  Legends  of  the  Saints  of  old, 

Not  vast  Baroniusy  nor  sly  Surius  hold 

Such  plenty  of  apparent  LieSy  as  are 

In  your  one  AuthoTy  yo.  Browne  Cleric,  Par. 

Besides  what  your  sniall  Poets  have  said,  or  writ, 

BroekeSy  Strodey  and  the  Baron  of  the  Saw-pit: 

With  many  a  Af entail  Reservationy 

You*le  maintaine  Libertjy  Reserved  [your  owne.] 

For  th'  publique  good  the  summes  rais'd  you'le  disburse; 

Reserv'dy  [The  greater  part  for  your  owne  purse.] 

You*le  root  the  Cavaliers  out,  every  man ; 

Faith,  let  it  be  reserved  here ;    [If  yee  can.] 

You'le  make  our  gracious  Charles,  a  glorious  King; 

Reserved  [in  Heaveny"]  for  thither  ye  would  bring 

His  RoyaJl  Head ;   the  onely  secure  roome 

For  glorious  KingSy  whither  you^le  never  come. 

To  keepe  the  estates  o'th*  Subjefts  you  pretend ; 

Reserved  [in  your  owne  Trunies  i]  you  will  defend 

The  Church  of  Englandy  'tis  your  Protestation  ; 

But  that's  New-Englandy  by'a  small  Reservation. 

Power  of  dispensing  Oaths  the  Papists  claime ; 
Case  hath  got  leave  o'  Gody  to  doe  the  same. 
For  you  doe  hate  all  swearing  so,  that  when 
You  have  sworne  an  Oathy  ye  breake  it  streight  agen. 
A  Curse  upon  you  !   which  hurts  most  these  Nations, 
Cavaliers  swearingy  or  your  Protestations? 
Nay,  though  Oaths  by  you  be  so  much  abhorr'd, 
Ye  allow  God  damne  me  in  the  Puritan  Lord. 

They  keepe  the  Bible  from  Lay-meny  but  ye 
Avoid  this,  for  ye  have  no  Laytie. 
They  in  a  forraigne,  and  unknowne  tongue  pray. 
You  in  an  unknowne  sence  your  prayers  say : 
So  that  this  difference  'twixt  ye  does  ensue, 
Fooles  understand  not  thenty  nor  fVise  men  you. 

They  an  unprofitable  zeale  have  got. 
Of  invocating  Saints  that  heare  them  not. 
*Twere  well  you  did  so ;   nought  may  more  be  fear'd 
In  your  fond  prayers,  then  that  they  should  be  heard. 
To  them  your  Ison-sence  well  enough  might  passe. 
They'd  nc're  see  that  i'th'  Divine  LooUng-glasse : 

151 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Nay,  whether  youMe  worship  Saints  is  not  jret  knowne. 
For  ve'have  as  vet  of  your  Religion  none. 

They  by  gooa-workes  thinke  to  be  justified^ 
You  into  the  same  errour  deeper  slide ; 
You  thinke  by  workes  too  justified  to  be, 
And  those  ill  workes^  LieSy  Treason^  Perjurie, 
But  oh  your  faith  is  mighty,  that  hath  beene, 
As  true  faith  ought  to  be,  of  things  unseene. 
At  Worc^stevy  Braincefordy  and  Edge  hilly  we  see, 
Onely  by  faith  you'have  gotten  vi^ory. 
Such  is  your  faithy  and  some  such  unseene  way 
The  publiqui  faith  at  last  your  debts  will  pay. 

They  hold  free-will  (that  nought  their  soules  may  bind) 
As  the  great  Priviledge  of  all  mankind. 
You're  here  more  moderatey  for  'tis  your  intent, 
To  make't  a  Priviledge  but  of  Parliament. 
They  forbid  Priests  to  marry ;   you  worse  doc. 
Their  Marriage  you  allow,  yet  punish  too : 
For  you'de  make  Priests  so  poore,  that  upon  all 
Who  marryy  scorne  and  beggery  must  fall. 

They  a  bold  power  o're  sacred  Scriptures  take. 
Blot  out  some  Clauses,  and  some  new  ones  make. 
Your  great  Lord  Jesuite  Brookes  publiquely  said, 
{Brookes  whom  too  little  learning  hath  made  mad) 
That  to  correft  the  Creed  ye  should  doe  well, 
And  blot  out  Christs  descending  into  Hell. 
Repent  wild  man,  or  you'le  ne're  change,  I  feare, 
The  sentence  of  your  owne  descending  there. 

Yet  modestly  they  use  the  Creedy  for  they 
Would  take  the  Lords  prayer  Root  and  Branch  away. 
And  wisely  said  a  Levit  of  our  nation. 
The  Lords  Prayer  was  a  Popish  Innovation. 
Take  heed,  you'le  grant  ere  long  it  should  be  said, 
An't  be  but  to  desire  your  daily  Bread. 

They  keepe  the  people  ignoranty  and  you 
Keepe  both  the  PeopUy  and  yourselves  so  too. 
They  blind  obedience  and  blind  duty  teach  ; 
You  blind  Rebellion  and  blind  faction  preach. 
Nor  can  I  blame  you  much,  that  yee  advance 
That  which  can  onely  save  yee.  Ignorance 'y 

152 


THE  PURITAN  AND  THE   PAPIST 

Though  Heaven  be  pravsed,  t'has  oft  beene  proved  well 

Your  Ignorance  is  not  invincibU. 

Nay  such  bold  lies  to  God  him  selfe  yee  vaunt, 

As  if  jrou'd  faine  keepe  him  too  ignorant, 

Limlms  and  Purgatory  they  beleive 
For  lesser  sinnersy  that  is,  I  conceive, 
Afalignants  onely ;   you  this  Tricke  does  please, 
For  the  same  Cause  ye'have  made  new  Limbuses^ 
Where  we  may  ly  imprisoned  long  ere  we 
A  day  of  yudgement  in  your  Courts  shall  see. 
But  Pjm  can,  like  the  Pope  with  this  dispence ; 
And  for  a  Bribe  deliver  Saules  from  thence. 

Their  Counak  daime  InfallibHityy 
Such  must  your  Conventicle-synod  be ; 
And  Teachers  from  all  Parts  of  th'  Earth  yee  call. 
To  mak't  a  Councell  OecumenicalL 

They  sev'rall  times  appoint  from  meats  t'abstaine ; 
You  now  for  th'  Irish  warres  a  Fast  ordaine; 
And  that  that  Kingdome  might  be  sure  to  fast 
Yee  take  a  Course  to  sterve  them  all  at  last. 
Nay  though  yee  keepe  no  EveSy  FridayeSy  nor  Lenty 
Not  to  dresse  meate  on  Sundayes  you're  Content ; 
Then  you  repeat,  repeat,  and  pray>  and  pray ; 
Your  Teeth  keepe  Sabbothy  and  Tongues  working  day. 

They  preserve  Reliques ;   you  have  few  or  none, 
Unlesse  the  Chut  sent  to  John  Pym  be  one. 
And  HolKses  rich  fVidotVy  Shee  who  carryed 
A  Relique  in  her  wombe  before  she  married. 

They  in  succeeding  Peter  take  a  Pride ; 
So  doe  you ;   for  your  Master  ye'havc  denyed. 
But  cheifely  Peters  Priviledge  yee  choose, 
At  your  own  wills  to  bind  and  to  unloose. 
He  was  a  Fisherman  \   you  may  be  so  too. 
When  nothing  but  your  ships  are  left  to  you. 
He  went  to  R»mey  to  Rome  you  Backward  ridey 
(Though  both  your  goings  are  by  some  denyed.) 
Nor  i'st  a  Contradidtion,  if  we  say. 
You  goe  to  Rome  the  quite  Contrary  way -y 
He  dy'd  o'the  Crosse ;   that  death's  unusuall  now ; 
The  Gallowes  is  most  like't,  and  that's  for  you. 

153 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

They  musicke  love  i'th  Church;   it  ofiends  your  sence. 
And  therefore  yee  have  sung  it  out  from  thence. 
Which  shewes,  if  right  your  mind  be  understood. 
You  hate  it  not  as  Musicki^  but  as  Good. 
Your  madnesse  makes  you  sing^  as  much  as  they 
Danciy  who  are  bit  with  a  Tarantula. 
But  do  not  to  your  selves  (alas)  appeare 
The  most  Ri/igious  Traitors  that  ere  were, 
Because  your  Troopes  singing  of  Psalmes  do  goe ; 
Ther's  many  a  Traytor  has  marcht  Ho/bourn  so. 
Nor  was't  your  wit  this  holy  projedl  bore ; 
Tweed  and  the  Tyne  has  scene  those  Trickes  before. 

They  of  strange  Miracles  and  wonders  tell, 
You  are  your  selves  a  kind  of  Miracle  \ 
Even  such  a  miracle  as  in  writ  divine 
We  read  o'th  Devills  hurrying  downe  the  Swine, 
They  have  made  Images  to  speake^  'tis  said, 
You  a  dull  Image  have  your  Speaker  made ; 
And  that  your  bounty  in  offerings  might  abound, 
Y'have  to  that  Idoll  giv'n  six  thousand  pound. 
They  drive  out  Devills,  they  say  j    here  yee  begin 
To  differ,  I  confesse ;    you  let  them  in. 

They  maintaine  Transubstantiation ; 
You  by  a  Contrary  Philosophers  stone^ 
To  Transubstantiate  MettaJIs,  have  the  skill ; 
And  turne  the  Kingdomes  Gold  to  Pron  and  Steele, 
I'th'  Sacrament  yee  agree  not,  but  'tis  noted. 
Bread  must  be  Fleshy  IVine  Bloudy  if  ere't  be  voted. 

They  make  the  Pope  their  Heady  you'exalt  for  him 
Primate  and  Metropolitane^  Master  Pym  ; 
Nay,  IVhitey  who  sits  in  the  Infallible  Chaire^ 
And  most  Infallibly  speakes  Non-sence  there  : 
Nay  Cromwell  J  Pury^  Whistler^  Sir  John  Wray^ 
He  who  does  say,  and  say,  and  say,  and  say. 
Nay  Lowrvy  who  does  new  Churco^Gover'mgnt  wish. 
And  ProphesieSy  like  JonaSy  midst  the  Fish, 
Who  can  such  various  businesse  wisely  sway. 
And  handle  HerringSy  and  Bishops  in  one  day. 
Nay  all  your  Preachersy  Women,  Boyes,  or  Men, 
From  Master  Calamyy  to  Mistresse  Veny 


THE  PURITAN  AND  THE  PAPIST 

Arc  perfcd  Popei  in  their  owne  Parish  growne ; 
For  to  outdoe  the  story  of  Pope  Jonei 
Your  fVomen  preach  too,  and  are  like  to  bee 
The  fVhores  of  Babylon^  as  much  as  Shee, 

They  depose  Kings  by  force ;   by  force  you'de  doe  it. 
But  first  use  faire  meanes  to  perswade  them  to  it. 
They  dare  kill  Kings ;   now  'twixt  ye  here's  the  strife, 
That  you  dare  shoot  at  Kings^  to  save  their  life. 
And  what's  the  difierence,  'pray,  whether  he  fall 
By  the  Popes  Bull  or  your  Oxe  Generall? 
Three  Kingdomes  thus  ye  strive  to  make  your  owne; 
And,  like  the  Pope^  usurpe  a  Triple  Crowne. 

Such  is  your  Faithy  such  your  Religion ; 
Let's  view  your  manners  now,  and  then  I  ha'  done. 
Your  Covetousnesse  let  gasping  Ireland  tell. 
Where  first  the  Irish  Landsy  and  next  ye  sell 
The  English  Bloud\   and  raise  Rebellion  here. 
With  that  which  sliould  suppresse,  and  quench  it  there. 
What  mighty  summes  have  ye  squeez'd  out  o'th'  City? 
Enough  to  make  'em  poore^  and  something  witty. 
Excise^  LoaneSj  ContributionSy  Pole-moneySy 
BribeSy  Plundery  and  such  Parliament  PriviledgeSy 
Are  words  which  you'le  ne're  iearne  in  holy  Writ, 
'Till  the  Spirit  and  your  Synod  ha's  mended  it. 
Where's  all  the  Twentieth  part  now,  which  hath  beene 
Paid  you  by  some,  to  forfeit  the  Nineteenei 
Where's  all  the  Goods  distrain^ dy  and  Plunders  past  ? 
For  you're  growne  wretched,  pilfering  knaves  at  last ; 
Descend  to  Brasse  and  Pewter ;   till  of  late. 
Like  Midasy  all  ye  touchty  must  needs  be  Plate, 

By  what  vast  hopes  is  your  Ambition  fed  ? 
'Tis  writ  in  bbudy  and  may  be  plainly  read. 
You  must  have  PlaceSy  and  the  Kingaome  sway ; 
The  King  must  be  a  Ward  to  your  Lord  Say, 
Your  innocent  Speaker  to  the  RolUs  must  rise. 
Six  thousand  pound  hath  made  him  proud  and  wise, 
Kimbolton  for  his  Fathers  place  doth  call ; 
Would  be  like  him ;   would  he  were,  face  and  all. 
Isaack  would  alwayes  be  Lord  Mayory  and  so 
May  alwayes  be,  as  much  as  he  is  now. 

'55 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

For  the  Five  Members^  they  so  richly  thrive, 
TheyMc  but  continue  alwayes  Members  Five. 
Oncly  Pym  doth  his  naturall  right  enforce, 
By  the  Mothers  side  he's  Master  of  the  Horse, 
Most  shall  have  Places  by  these  popular  tricks, 
The  rest  must  be  content  with  Bishopricks, 

For  'tis  'gainst  Superstition  your  intent, 
First  to  root  out  that  great  Church  Ornament^ 
Money  and  Lands ;   your  swords,  alas,  are  drawne. 
Against  the  Bishop^  not  his  Capy  or  Lawne, 

O  let  not  such  loud  Sacriledge  beein. 
Tempted  by  Henries  rich  successefull  sinne. 
Henry  the  Monster  King  of  all  that  'age ; 
Wilde  in  his  Lusty  and  wilder  in  his  Kage. 
Expefl  not  you  his  Fate,  though  Hotham  thrives 
In  imitating  Henries  tricke  for  IViveSy 
Nor  fewer  Churches  hopes  then  IVives  to  see 
Buriedy  and  then  their  Lands  his  owne  to  bee. 

Ye  boundlesse  Tyr[a]ntSy  how  doe  you  outvy 
Th'  Athenian  Thirtyy  Romes  Decemviri  ? 
In  Rage,  Injustice,  Cruelty  as  farre 
Above  those  men,  as  you  in  number  are. 
What  Mysteries  of  Iniquity  doe  we  see? 
New  Prisons  made  to  defend  Liberties 
Where  without  cause,  some  are  undone,  some  dy. 
Like  men  bewitchty  they  know  not  hoWy  nor  w/^. 
Our  Goods  forced  from  us  for  Propriety* s  sake ; 
And  all  the  Reall  Non-sence  which  ye  make. 
Ship-money  was  unjustly  ta'ne,  ye  say  ; 
Unjustlier  farre  you  take  the  Ships  away. 
The  High-Commission  you  calld  Tyrannie, 
Ye  did  ;    Good  God  !    what  is  the  High-Committee  ? 
Ye  said  that  gifts  and  bribes  Preferments  bought. 
By  Money  and  B/oud  too,  they  now  are  sought. 
To  the  kings  will  the  Lawes  men  strove  to  draw ; 
The  Subjects  will  is  now  become  the  Law. 
'Twas  fear'd  a  New  Religion  would  begin ; 
All  new  Religions  now  are  entred  in. 
The  King  Delinquents  to  protect  did  strive ; 
What  Clubs,  Pikes,  Halberts,  Lighters,  sav'd  the  Five? 

156 


THE  PURITAN  AND  THE  PAPIST 

You  thinke  the  ParRanuntj  like  jour  State  of  Grace^ 

What  ever  sinnes  men  doe,  they  keepe  their  place. 

Invasions  then  were  fear'd  against  the  Statiy 

And  Strode  swore  that  last  jreare  would  be  ^Eighty-Eight. 

You  bring  in  Forraine  aid  to  your  desienes ; 

First  those  great  Forraim  Forces  of  Divines^ 

With  which  Ships  from  America  were  fraught; 

Rather  may  stinking  Tobacco  still  be  brought 

From  thence,  I  say;    next  ye  the  Scots  invite, 

Which  ye  terme  Brotherly  Assistants  right; 

For  with  them  you  intend  England  to  share: 

They,  who,  alas,  but  younger  Brothers  are, 

Must  have  the  Monies  for  their  Portion  \ 

The  Houses  and  the  Lands  will  be  your  owne. 

We  thanke  ye  for  the  wounds  which  we  endure, 

WhiFst  scratches  and  slight  pricks  ye  seeke  to  cure. 

We  thanke  ye  for  true  reall  feares  at  last. 

Which  free  us  from  so  ma[n]y  false  ones  past. 

We  thanke  ye  for  the  Bloud  which  fats  our  Coasty 

(That  fiitall  debt  paid  to  great  Str affords  Ghost.) 

We  thanke  ye  for  the  ills  received,  and  all 

Which  by  your  diligence  in  good  time  we  shall. 

We  thanke  ye,  and  our  gratitudes  as  great 

As  yourSj  when  you  thank'd  God  for  being  beat. 

A.  C. 


FINIS. 


«57 


THE 


GUARDIAN; 

A 

COMEDIE. 

Adled  before 

Prince   CHARLS 

His  HIGHNESS 

At  Trinity-CoUedg  in  Cambridge^ 
upon  the  twelfth  of  March^   1641. 


Written  by 
ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


London, 
Printed  for  JOHN  HOLDEN  at  the 
Anchor  in  the  New-Exchange, 

1650. 


The  Aftors  Names. 

CAptain  Blade  the  Guardian. 
0[/]i/  Truman,  a  teasty  old  man, 
Toung  Truman  his  Son^  in  love  with  Lucia. 
Col  Cutter  a  sharking  Souldier\    r  j  ^  ^l    hvj        l 

Dogrel  a  sharking  Po%asUr      ]  MT'"  a/  the  fVtdows  h^. 

Puny  a  young  Gallant^  a  pretender  to  wit, 

Lucia  Neece  and  Ward  to  Captain  Blade,  in  love  with  young 

Truman. 
Aurelia  daughter  to  Blade. 

Widow,  [an]  old  Puritan^  Landlady  to  Colonel  Cutter  anJ  Dogrel. 
Tabytha  her  Daughter, 

Jaylors,  Servants,  and  Fidlers. 

The  Scene  London. 


1 60 


The 

PROLOGUE. 


WHo  says  the  Times  do  Learning  disallow? 
\^*r\is  falser   *twas  never  honoured  so  as  now 
When  you  appear j  great  Princey  our  night  is  done: 
Tou  are  our  Morning-star^  and  shall  Vour  Sun, 
But  our  Scene's  London  noWj  and  by  the  rout 
We  perish  if  the  Roundheads  he  about : 
For  now  no  ornament  the  head  must  wear^ 
No  BaySj  no  Mitrey  not  so  much  as  Hair. 
How  can  a  Play  pass  safely^  when  we  knowy 
Cheapside^Cross  falls  for  making  but  a  show? 
Our  onely  hope  is  thiSy  that  it  may  be 
A  Play  may  pass  tooj  made  ex  tempore. 
Though  other  Arts  poor  and  neglected  grow^ 
They'll  admit  Poetry^  which  was  always  so, 
BesideSy  the  Muses  of  late  times  have  bin 
SanSfifPd  by  the  Verse  of  Master  Prin. 

But  we  contemn  the  fury  of  these  daySy 
And  scorn  as  much  their  Censure  as  their  Praise. 
Our  MusCy  blest  PrincCy  does  onely  on  you  relie ; 
Would  gladly  livey  yet  not  refuse  to  die. 
Accept  our  hastie  zeal;   a  thing  that's  played 
Ere  *tis  a  Playy  and  a6ied  ere  *tis  made. 
Our  Ignorancey  but  our  Duty  tooy  we  show: 
I  would  all  ignorant  people  would  do  so. 
At  other  timeSy  expe^  our  Wit  and  Art ; 
Tins  Comedy  is  aSied  by  the  Heart, 


c.  n.  L  j6i 


The    Guardian. 


A&.   I.     Scaen.   i. 

JVidoWy  Tabytha^  Colonel  Cutter^  Dogrel. 

Cutter.  T)Rithce  widow  be  not  incens'd,  we'll  shew  our  selves 
X     like  yong  Lords  shortly ;  and  you  know,  I  Hope, 
they  use  to  pay  their  debts. 

tVid.     ly  you  talk  of  great  matters,  I  wis,  but  Fm  sure 
I  could  never  see  a  groat  yet  of  your  money. 
Dog.     Alas,  we  carry  no  silver  about  us. 
That  were  mechanical  and  base; 

Gold  we  about  us  bring : 
Gold,  thou  art  mighty  in  each  place. 
Of  Metals  Prince  and  King. 
Why  I  tell  you  my  pockets  have  not  been  guilty  of  any  small 
money  in  my  remembrance. 

fVid.  I  know  not,  but  all  things  are  grown  dear  of  late; 
our  Beef  costs  three  shillings  a  stone,  and  the  price  of  corn  \s 
rais'd  too. 

Taby.  Nay,  mother,  coals  are  rais'd  too,  they  say.  These 
things  you  think  cost  nothing. 

Dog.     Nay,  Taby t ha y  Mistress  Taby t ha!   ifaithlaw  now  ITl 
make  a  Psalm  for  you,  and  be  but  peaceable. 
Contain  thy  tongue,  and  keep  it  in 
Within  thy  mouths  large  prison. 
Both  jars,  and  also  many  a  sin 
From  out  the  mouth  has  risen. 
I'm  onely  for  Odes,  by  the  Muses,  and  the  quickest  for  them, 
I  think,  in  the  Christian  world,  take  in  Turks,  Infidels,  Jews 
and  all. 

162 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Cutt,  Have  but  a  little  patience,  widow;  well — ^I'll  say 
this  for  thee,  thou  art  the  honestest  Landlady  upon  the  fiice  of 
the  earth,  which  makes  me  desire  to  live  in  your  house ;  and 
you  shall  not  lose  by't:  do  but  mark  the  end. 

fF'id.  I  stand  not  so  much  upon  that;  but  I  use  to  ha' 
Lawyers  in  my  house,  such  civil  compleat  gentlemen  in  their 
Sattin  doublets  (I  warrant  you)  and  broad  ru£,  as  passes ;  and 
Courtiers,  all  to  be  lacM  and  slasht,  and  fine  fellows  as  you  shall 
see  in  a  sununers  day ;  they  would  not  say  Why  do  ye  this  ?  to 
a  woman :  and  then  Knights. 

Tab.     I,  and  Gentlemen  too,  mother. 

ff^d.  But  you,  forsooth,  come  in  drunk  every  night,  and 
fall  a  swearing  as  if  you  would  rend  the  house  in  two,  and  then 
mumble  and  tumble  my  daughters  cloathes,  she  says. 

Tab,     I,  and  would  have 

Cutt.     What  would  we  have  done  ? 

Tab.     Nay  no  good,  I  warrant  you. 

ff^id.  And  then  you  drink  up  a  kilderkin  of  small  beer 
next  morning. 

Dog.  All  this  shall  be  corrected  and  amended.  Landlady: 
yes  &ith.  Cutter^  thou  must  repent,  thou  hast  been  to  blame 
sometimes. 

ff^.  Besides,  you  are  always  so  full  of  your  fripperies, 
and  are  always  a  grinning  and  sneering  at  every  thing :  I  was 
wont  to  have  sober  boorders  in  my  house,  and  not  such  hee-hee- 
beeing  fellows. 

Tab.  Nay,  they  mock'd  and  fleer'd  at  us  as  we  sung  the 
Psalm  the  last  Sunday-night. 

Cutt.  That  was  that  mungrel  Rhymer;  by  this  light,  he 
envies  his  brother  Poet  honest  john  Sternholdy  because  he  cannot 
reach  his  heights. 

Wul.  O  the  fiither !  the  Colonel's  as  full  of  waggery  as 
an  egge's  full  of  meat :  I  warrant,  M.  Dogrel^  what  you  get 
by  him  you  may  e*en  put  i'  your  eye,  and  ne'er  see  the  worse 
foPt. 

Cutt.  Well,  and  how  dost  ifaith  now,  honest  Landlady? 
when  shall  we  walk  again  into  Moor-fields,  and  rejoyce  at  the 
Queens  Cake-house? 

Dog.  r\\  bespeak  Cakes,  and  Ale  o'th'  purpose  there;  and 
thou  shalt  eat  stew'd  Prunes,  little  Tabytha^  till  thy  smock  drop 

L  2  163 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

again.   A  word  i'  you[r]  ear,  Landlady :  Can  you  accommodate 
us  with  two  shillings? 

To  morrow  ere  the  rosic  finger'd  morn 
Starts  from  Tithonus  bed,  as  Authors  write; 
Ere  Phoebus  cry  Gee-hoe  unto  his  team, 
We  will  restore  again,  and  thank  you  for  your  pain. 

Cutt,  ril  tell  you  a  secret,  Landlady:  Captain  Blade  and 
I  shall  be  call'd  shortly  to  the  Court;  the  King  has  taken 
notice  of  our  deserts:  I  say  no  more:  though  yet  thou 
scorn'st  mc,  Tabythoy  I'll  make  thee  a  Lady  one  day.  Will 
you  lend,  widow?     Great  affairs  bid  me  make  haste. 

JVid,  I  care  not  much  if  I  trust  you  for  once :  Come  in 
and  take  it. 

Dog,     Then  Mistress  let  me  lead  you  thus. 

And  as  we  go  let's  buss. 
Tab.     Buss  me  no  bussings.     O  lord,  how  you  tumble  my 
gorget !  Exeunt. 


Aft.    I.     Scaen.   2. 

Captain  Blade^  solus. 

I  could  now  be  as  melancholy  as  an  old  scabbie  Masti£^  or 
the  Lions  in  the  Tower:  'twere  a  good  humour  to  repent. 
Well,  Captain,  something  must  be  done,  unless  a  man  could 
get  true  gems  by  drinking,  or,  like  a  mouse  in  a  cheese,  enlarge 
his  house-room  by  eating.  Four  hundred  pound  a  yeer 
cashier'd  ?  Four  hundred,  by  this  light.  Captain.  All  my 
comfort  is,  that  now  the  usurer's  damn'd ;  and  now  that  nig- 
gardly threescore  and  ten  withered  chap-fain  Puritanical  thin^ 
his  wife,  refuses  to  marry  mc :  I  would  see  her  burnt  for  an  old 
witch  before  I'd  take  her  for  a  wife,  if  she  had  not  Agues, 
Squinancies,  Gouts,  Cramps,  Palsies,  Apoplexies,  and  two  dozen 
of  diseases  more  then  S.  Thomas  Hospital;  and  if  she  live 
long  with  all  these,  I'm  sure  she'll  kill  me  quickly.  But  let  her 
be  damn'd  with  her  husband :  Bring  some  drink,  boy ;  Tm 
foxt,  by  this  light,  with  drinking  nothing  yet. 

164 


THE   GUARDIAN 


A6k.   I.     Scaen.  3. 

B/adf^  Cutter^  Dogrel. 

Blade.  What  are  ye  come?  Bring  us  a  Tun  then,  and 
that  so  big,  that  that  of  Heidelberg  may  seem  but  hke  a  barrel 
of  pickl'd  Oysters  to*t.  Welcome  Snapsack,  welcome  little 
vermin  of  Parnassus :  how  is't,  my  Laureate  Rhymer  ?  dost 
thou  sing  Fortune  my  foe  still  with  thy  brother  Poet  ? 

Dog.     Yc  Muses  nine  assist  my  verse, 
That  dwell  by  Helicon  along; 
Captain  Blades  praise  I  will  rehearse, 
With  lyre  and  with  song. 

Bla.  Why  this  right  Ballad,  and  they  hobble  like  the 
fellow  with  the  wooden  leg  that  sings  them.  And  how  dost, 
man  o'  blood? 

Cutt.  As  well  as  a  man  of  worth  can  do  in  these  days, 
where  deserts  are  so  little  regarded :  if  Wars  come  once,  who 
but  Cutter?  who  else  but  Colonel  Cutter?  God  save  you. 
Colonel  Cutter y  erf  the  Lords;  the  Ladies  they  smile  upon 
Colonel  Cutter^  and  call  Colonel  Cutter  a  proper  Gentleman : 
every  man  strives  who  shall  invite  Colonel  Cutter  to  dinner: 
not  a  Cuckoldly  creditor  dares  pluck  me  by  the  cloak,  and  say. 
Sir,  you  forgot  your  promise,  I'm  in  a  strait  for  moneys,  my 
occasions  force  me,  or  the  like. 

Bla.  Cheer  up,  my  Hercules  upon  a  signe,  I  have  a  plot 
for  yc,  which  if  it  thrive,  thou  shalt  no  more  lie  sunning  in  a 
bowling-alley,  nor  go  on  special  holidays  to  the  three-peny 
Ordinary,  and  then  cry  It  pleases  my  humor  better  then  to  dine 
at  my  Lord  Maiors. 

Cutt.     Would  we  had  some  drink  here  to  stop  your  mouth. 

Bla.  No  more  be  sick  two  or  three  days  while  thy  boots 
are  vamping:  no  more  outswear  whores  in  a  reckoning,  and 
leave  the  house  in  an  anger. 

Cut.     Ha*  you  done  ? 

Bla.  Nor  sup  at  Taverns  with  Radishes :  nor  for  a  meals 
meat  overthrow  the  King  of  Spain  of  the  Hollanders  when  you 

165 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

please :  nor  when  you  go  to  bed  produce  ten  several  Tavern 
snufis  to  make  one  pipe  of  Tobacco. 

Cut,     'Slid  would  I  had  one  here. 

Bla.  Nor  change  your  name  and  lodging  as  often  as  a 
whore ;  for  as  yet,  if  you  had  liv'd  like  a  Tartar  in  a  cart,  (as 
you  must  die,  I  fear,  in  one)  your  home  could  not  have  been 
more  uncertain.  Your  last  Gests  were  these :  From  a  Water- 
mans  house  at  the  Banks  side,  (marry  you  stay'd  there  but  a 
small  while,  because  the  fellow  was  jealous  of  his  wife)  passing 
o'er  like  great  King  Xerxes  in  a  Sculler,  you  arriv'd  at  a 
Chandlers  house  in  Thames-street,  and  there  took  up  your 
lodging.  The  day  before  you  should  have  paid,  you  vralkt 
abroad,  and  were  seen  no  more ;  for  ever  after  the  smell  of  the 
place  ofFended  you.  Next,  you  appear'd  at  an  Ale-house  i'th' 
Covent-Garden,  like  a  Duck  that  dives  at  one  end  of  the  pond, 
but  rises  unexpectedly  at  the  other.  But  that  place  (though 
there  was  Beer  and  Tobacco  there)  by  no  means  pleas'd  you ; 
for  there  dwelt  so  many  cheaters  thereabouts,  that  you  could 
not  live  by  one  another ;  they  spoil'd  your  trade  quite.  Then 
from  a  Shoo-makers,  (as  you  entitl'd  him  \  marry  some  authora 
call  him  a  Coblcr)  to  a  Basket-makers;  from  thence  to  the 
Counter :  from  thence,  after  much  benevolence,  to  a  Barbers ; 
changing  more  lodgings  then  Pythagoras  his  soul  did*  At 
length,  upon  confidence  of  those  new  breeches,  and  the  scour- 
ing of  that  everlasting  BufF,  you  ventur'd  upon  the  widows, 
that  famous  house  for  boorders,  and  are  by  this  time  hoysing  up 
your  sails,  I'm  sure ;  the  next  fair  winde  y'are  gone. 

Cut,  I  wonder,  Captain,  among  so  many  rascally  houses, 
how  I  happened  to  miss  yours.  'Tis  true,  I  have  not  lien  leaguer 
always  at  one  place:  Souldiers  must  remove  their  tents: 
Alexander  the  Great  did  it  an  hundred  times. 

Bla.  Now  to  the  words  of  comfort — drink  first— then 
Lordings  listen  all. 

Dog,     We  do,  both  great  and  small. 
O  my  conscience  this  cup  of  wine  has  done  my  genius  good. 

Bla,     When  first  my  brother  departed — 

Dog,     'Twas  poorly  spoken,  by  this  day. 

Bla,  He  committed  his  daughter  and  estate  to  my  care; 
which  if  she  either  di'd,  or  married  without  my  consent,  he 
bequeath'd  all  to  me.     Being  five  yeers  gone,  he  died. 

1 66 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Dog.     How  firail  is  humane  life!    Well  sung  the  divine  Poet 
Like  t9  the  damask  rose  you  see^ 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree^ 
Or  like^  &c. 

CutU  Sirrah,  Trundle,  either  hear  out  peaceably,  or  I  shall 
cut  jour  ears  off.     Proceed,  Captain. 

Bla.  I  fidling  into  ill  company,  yours,  or  some  other  such 
idle  fellows,  began  to  be  misled,  could  drink  and  swear,  nay,  at 
last,  whore  sometimes  too ;  which  courses  having  now  at  last 
made  me  like  Job  in  every  thing  but  patience ;  your  Landlady 
(for  to  her  husband  my  estate  was  morgag'd)  I  have  sought  all 
means  to  marry. 

Dog.     That  Niobe!  that  Hecuba! 

Bla.  Pish !  I  could  have  lien  with  either  of  the  two,  so't 
had  been  before  Hecuba  was  turn'd  into  a  bitch,  or  t'other  into 
a  stone :  for  though  I  hate  her  worse  then  small  beer. 

Cutt.     Or  pal'd  wine. 

Dog.     Or  proverbs  and  Latine  sentences  in  discourse. 

Cutt.     Or  a  Sermon  of  two  hours  long. 

Bla.  Or  Dogrels  verses,  or  what  you  will  else ;  yet  she  has 
money,  blades;  she  would  be  a  Guiana  or  Peru  to  me,  and  we 
should  drink  four  or  five  yeers  securely,  like  Dutchmen  at  a 
Wedding.  But  hang  her,  let  her  die  and  go  to  hell,  'tis  onely 
that  can  warm  her :  she  scorns  me  now  my  money's  gone. 

Dog.     Thus  Pride  doth  still  with  Beauty  dwell. 
And  like  the  Baltick  ocean  swell. 

Bla.     Why  the  Baltick,  Dogrel? 

Dog.  Why  the  Baltick?  This  tis  not  to  have  read  the 
Poets. 

Bla.  Now  if  my  neece  should  marry,  pnestOy  the  means 
are  gone;  and  I  must,  like  some  Gentleman  without  fear  or 
regard  of  the  gallows,  betake  my  self  to  the  high-way,  or  else 
cheat  like  one  of  you,  and  tremble  at  the  sight  of  a  pillory. 
Therefore — (prick  up  your  ears,  for  your  good  angel  speaks) 
upon  conditions  of  share,  I  marry  her  to  one  of  you. 

Both.     I  but  how.  Captain  ?  how  ? 

Bla.  Why  either  she  shall  have  one  of  you,  or  no  body; 
for  if  she  nurry  without  my  consent,  the  money's  mine  own : 
and  she'll  be  haiig'd  first  i'th'  Friers  rope,  ere  she  turn  Nun. 

Cutt.     I'll  be  a  Franciscan,  if  she  do. 

167 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Bla.  Not  a  Carthusian,  I  warrant  thee,  to  abstain  from 
flesh.  Thou  mightst  well  have  taken  holy  Orders,  if  it  were 
not  for  chastity  and  obedience :  their  other  vow  of  never  carry- 
ing money  about  thee,  thou  hast  observed  from  thy  youth  up. 

Dog.  I'll  have  her,  by  Mercury  \  I  have  two  or  three 
Love-odes  ready  made ;  they  can*t  chuse  but  win  her.  Cuttery 
adore  me.  Cutter y  thou  shaft  have  wine  thy  fill,  though  thou 
couldst  out-drink  Xerxes  his  army. 

Cutt.  You  get  her?  what  with  that  Ember  week-face  of 
thine  ?  that  Rasor  of  thy  nose,  those  ears  that  prick  up  like  a 
Puritanical  button-makers  of  Amsterdam?  thou  lookst  as  if 
thou  never  hadst  been  fed  since  thou  suck'dst  thy  mothers 
milk :  thy  cheeks  begin  to  fall  into  thy  mothers  mouth,  that 
thou  mightst  eat  'em.  Why  thou  very  lath  with  a  thing  cut 
like  a  face  atop,  and  a  slit  at  the  bottom  !  I  am  a  man,  and  can 
do  her  service ;  here's  metal,  boy. 

Dog.     'Tis  i'  your  face  then. 

Cutt.  I  can  fight  her  quarrels,  boy,  and  beget  on  her  new 
Achilleses. 

Dog.  Yes — thou  art  a  very  Achilles — in  the  swiftness  of 
thy  feet :  but  thou  art  a  worser  coward  then  any  of  the  TrainM 
Bands :  I'll  have  a  school-boy  with  a  cat-stick  take  away  thy 
Mistress  from  thee.  Besides,  what  parts  hast  thou  ?  hast  thou 
scholarship  enough  to  make  a  Brewers  clerk?  Canst  thou  read 
the  Bible  ?  I'm  sure  thou  hast  not.  Canst  thou  write  more 
then  thine  own  name?  and  that  in  such  vile  characters,  that 
most  men  take  them  for  Arabian  pot-hooks;  and  some  think 
thou  dost  but  set  thy  mark  when  thou  writest  thy  name.  I'm 
vers'd,  Cutter  in  the  whole  Encyclopaedic,  a  word  that's  Greek 
to  you.     I  am  a  Wit,  and  can  make  Greek  verses  ex  tempvrt, 

Bla.  Nay  not  so;  for  if  you  come  to  your  verses,  Dogrel^ 
I'm  sure  you  ha'  done  with  wit.  He  that  best  pleases  her,  take 
her  a  Gods  name,  and  allow  the  tothcr  a  pension :  What  think 
you,  gallants? 

Cutt.     Agreed ;  thou  shalt  have  three  pound  and  a  cloak. 

Dog.     Away,  you  puff,  you  kickshaw,  you  quaking  custard. 

Cutt.     Prethee  be  patient,  thou  shalt  have  lace  to't  too. 

Bla.     Pox  take  you  both ;  drink  and  be  friends. 

Dog.  Here's  to  you,  Cutter.  I'm  something  cholerick, 
and  given  to  jeering :  but  what,  man  ?  words  are  but  winde. 

i68 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Bla.  FU  call  her  in.  Why  boy  within  th[er]e,  call  my 
neece  quickly  hither. 

Dog.  I'm  undone ;  I  ha'  left  my  Ode  at  home :  undone, 
by  Mercurjy  unless  my  memory  help  me. 

Cutt.  Thus  and  thus  will  I  accoast  her:  I'm  the  man; 
Dogrek  clothes  will  cast  him. 

A&.   I.     Scaen.  4. 

Bladcy  Cutter y  Dogrely  Lucia, 

Bla,  When  she  has  seen  you  both,  one  void  the  room,  and 
so  wooe  by  turns. 

DogreL     I'll  go  out  first,  and  meditate  upon  my  Ode. 

Bla.  Welcome,  dear  neece;  I  sent  for  you  to  entertain 
these  Gentlemen  my  friends :  and  heark  you,  neece,  make  much 
of  them ;  they  are  men  of  worth  and  credit  at  the  Court, 
though  they  go  so  plain;  that's  their  humour  onely:  And 
heark  you,  neece,  they  both  love  you ;  you  cannot  chuse  amiss. 
I  ha'  some  business Your  servant.  Gentlemen. 

Imc»  Not  chuse  amiss  ?  indeed  I  must  do.  Uncle,  if  I  should 
chuse  again.     Y'are  welcom.  Gentlemen. 

Cutt.  I  thank  you,  fairest  Lady :  I  am  a  Souldier,  Lady, 
and  cannot  complement ;  but  I  ha'  travell'd  over  all  the  world, 
Germany,  Morocco,  Swethland,  Persia,  France,  Hungary, 
Caleput,  Peru. 

D9g,  'Slid,  how  he  shufHes  all  the  Countries  together  like 
lots  in  a  hat! 

Cut.  Yet  I  never  saw  before  so  fair  a  Lady.  I  cannot 
complement  i'  faith. 

Imc,     Y'have  taken  a  long  journey.  Sir,  'twere  best 
To  rest  your  self  a  little :    Will  you  sit  ? 
Will  you,  Sir,  take  a  seat  too? 

Dog,  'Slife  I  can't  say  my  Ode  now.  I'll  wait  upon  you 
presently.  Exit, 

Cutt,     Fair  Lady — (This  'tis  to  converse   with   none   but 
whores:  I  know  not  what  to  say  to  her.) 
You  are  the  onely  mistress  of  my  thoughts. 
My  service  to  you.  Lady.  Drinks  to  her, 

169 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Luc,     To  me,  Sir,  do  you  speak,  or  to  the  wine  ? 

Cutt,  To  vou,  by  Mars.  Can  you  love  me,  Beauty  ?  Vm 
sure  your  uncle  prefers  no  man  under  the  cope — 

Luc,     Soft,  Sir,  d'ye  use  to  take  in  Towns  so  soon  ? 
My  uncle  gave  an  equal  commendation 
To  both  of  you. 

Cutt,  What?  to  that  mole-catcher  i'th*  old  Serge?  he 
brought  him  in  for  humour,  to  make  you  sport.  I'll  tell  you 
what  he  is. 

Luc.     Pray  do.  Sir. 

Cutt.  The  very  embleme  of  poverty  and  poor  poetry :  the 
feet  are  worse  patcht  of  his  Rhymes,  then  of  his  Stockines :  if 
one  line  forget  it  self,  and  run  out  beyond  his  elbow,  while  the 
next  keeps  at  home  (like  him)  and  dares  not  shew  his  head ;  he 
calls  that  an  Ode.  Your  uncle  and  I  maintain  him  onelv  for 
sport,  ril  tell  you  how  I  found  him  \  marry  walking  in  Moor- 
fields  cross  arm'd:  he  could  not  pluck  his  hat  over  his  eyes, 
there  were  so  many  holes  in  it:  he  had  not  so  much  linen 
about  him  as  would  make  a  cuiF  for  a  Bartlemew-foyr-baby. 
Marry  the  worst  I  like  in  him  is,  he  will  needs  sometimes,  m 
way  of  gratitude,  present  me  with  a  paper  of  Verses.  Here 
comes  the  vermin. 

A£t.   I.     Scaen.   5. 

CuttcTy  Dogrely  Lucia, 

ril  leave  him  alone  with  you,  that  you  may  have  the  better 
sport :  he'll  not  shew  half  his  tricks  before  me.  I  think  I  ha* 
spoil'd  his  markets.  Now  will  I  stand  behinde  the  hangings, 
and  hear  how  she  abuses  him.  I  know  by  her  eye  she  loves  me. 
Cutter^  thou'rt  blest.  Exit. 

Dog.     Fairer,  O  fairer  then  the  Lilly, 
Then  Primerose  fair,  or  DafFa[d]illy ; 
Less  red  then  thy  cheeks  the  Rose  is. 
When  the  Spring  it  doth  disclose  his 
Leaves;    thy  eyes  put  down  the  star-light; 
When  they  shine,  we  see  afar — light. 
O  these  eyes  do  wound  my  heart 
With  pretty  little  Cupids  dart; 

170 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Wounded  I  am  with  deadly  smart; 

The  pain  raigns  in  every  part. 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  great  desart 

Draw  me  as  horses  draw  a  Cart. 

O  that  I  had  Rhetoricks  art — impart — fart — mart — start. 

To  move  thee;   for  I  would  not  start 

TiU  I— 

Luc.     Take  heed,  Sir,  you'll  be  out  of  breath  anon. 
Y'ha'  done  enough  for  any  honest  Poet. 

E>eg.     Fairest  nymph,  I  swear  to  thee, 
The  later  part  was  made  ex  tempore! 
Not  a  bit  of  prose  goes  down  with  me. 

Lue.    (I  must  know't.) 
BAay  I  be  so  bold  as  to  enquire  of  you 
Your  friends  name  that  was  here;  he  seems  to  be 
A  man  of  worth  and  quality.  Cut.    That's  I. 

D»g.     Quality?  yes?  Cut.    That's  I  again. 

If  whoring,  drinking,  cheating,  poverty  and  cowardice  be 
qualities,  he's  one  of  the  best  qualified  men  in  the  Christian 
world.  Cut.     O  the  devil  I 

Luc.     He's  a  great  traveller. 

D»g.  In  suburbs  and  by-lanes;  he  never  heard  a  gun  but 
in  Moor-fields  or  Finsbury  at  a  mustering,  and  quak'd  then  as 
if  they  had  been  the  Spaniards :  I'll  undertake  a  Pot-gun  shall 
dismay  him. 

Cutt.     A  plague  upon  him — 

Dag.  Those  breeches  he  wears,  and  his  hat,  1  gave  him: 
till  then,  he  went  like  a  Paper-mill  all  in  rags,  and  like  some 
old  statue  in  a  ruin'd  Abbey.  About  a  month  ago,  you  might 
ha*  seen  him  peep  out  at  a  grate,  and  cry,  Kinde  merciful  Gentle- 
metiy  fir  the  Lards  sate,  poor  prisoners  undone  by  suretiship,  and 
the  like. 

Cut.     Contain  thy  self,  great  spirit ;  keep  in  a  while. 

Dag,  We  call  him  Colonel  in  an  humour  onely.  The 
fiuniture  of  his  chamber  (for  now,  at  mine  and  some  other 
Gentlemens  charges,  he  has  got  one)  is  half  a  chair,  and  an 
earthen  chamber-pot,  the  bottom  of  an  inkhorn  for  a  candle- 
stick, and  a  dozen  of  little  gally-pots  with  salve  in  'um ;  for  he 
has  more  diseases — 

Cut.    I  can  endure  no  longer.  Enters. 

171 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Dogrelj  thou    lyest ;    there's    my  glove ;  meet   me  an   hour 
hence. 

Dog.     And   there's   mine.     Pll   put  a  good   &ce  on't;   he 
dares  not  fight,  Fm  sure. 

Cut,     Two  hours  hence 
Expedt  the  Saracens  head;    I'll  do't,  by  heavens. 
Though  hills  were  set  on  hills,  and  seas  met  seas,  to  guard 

thee, 
I'd  reach  thy  head,  thy  head,  proud  DogreL  Exit. 

Luc,     Nay,  y'are  both  even :  just  such  an  ex'lent  character 
He  did  bestow  on  you.     Why  thou  vile  wretch 
Go  to  the  stews,  the  gaole,  seek  there  a  wife; 
Thou'lt  finde  none  there  but  such  as  will  scorn  thee. 
Was  thy  opinion  of  my  birth  or  fortune, 
My  chastity  or  beauty  (which  I  willingly 
Confess  to  be  but  small)  so  poor  and  lowe. 
That  thou  couldst  think  thy  self  a  match  for  me? 
I'll  sooner  marry  with  my  grave;    for  thou 
Art  worscr  dirt  then  that.     See  me  no  more.  Exit, 

Dog,     Scorn'd  by  a  mistress?   with  a  friend  to  fight? 
Hence,  lighter  Odes;    I'll  biting  Satyrs  write.  Exit. 

AQi.   I.     Scaen.  6. 

Truman  filius,  Lucia, 

Tru,     I  must  be  gone,  my  Lucia  \   I  must  leave 
My  self,  and  thee,  more  then  my  self,  behinde  me. 
Thus  parts  the  greedy  usurer  from  his  bags. 
With  an  heart  heavier  then  those:    he  fixes 
His  covetous  eye  upon  the  charming  metal. 
As  if  he  meant  to  throng  those  many  pleasures 
Which  several  times  would  yceld,  into  one  minute. 
With  as  much  joy  he  kisses  his  lov'd  Idol, 
As  I  do  thee,  to  whom  all  gold  compar'd, 
Seems  but  like  Pebbles  to  the  Diamond: 
And  then  he  sighs,  my  Lucia, 

Luc.     And  weeps  too,  if,  like  us,  he  bid  farewel. 
Why  should  your  father  be  so  cruel? 

172 


THE  GUARDIAN 

TVb.     He's  old  and  angry,  Lucia,  very  angry, 
And  either  has  forgot  his  youthful  days. 
Or  else  I'll  swear  he  did  not  love  my  mother 
With  half  that  noble  heat  that  I  do  thee : 
For  when  he  heard  your  uncles  resolutions, 
Doubting  your  portion  if  wc  two  should  marry, 
He  forc'd  me  to  an  oath  so  strange,  which  though 
I  then  durst  swear,  I  scarce  dare  now  repeat; 
An  oath  ne'er  more  to  see  nor  hear  thee,  Lucia, 
After  the  envious  shortness  of  this  hour, 
Without  his  leave. 

Luc.     You  will  forget  me  quite  then. 

TV*.     Forget  thee,  Lucia?   'tis  not  death  it  self 
Has  so  much  Lethe  in't:   I  shall  not  chuse 
In  the  long  sleep  o'th'  grave,  but  dream  of  thee. 
If  it  be  true  that  souls  which  leave  hid  treasures 
(Being  buried  fu  less  peaceable  then  their  gold) 
Walk  up  and  down,  and  in  their  urns  want  rest. 
How  will  my  ghost  then  wander,  which  has  left 
Such  precious  wealth  behinde  it  i    Sure  it  will 
Desire  to  see  thee,  and  I  fear  will  fright  thee, 
I  would  say  more,  but  I  shall  weep  anon.  Exit, 

Luc.     So  quickly  gone !    he   might  have  staid,  me  thinks, 
A  little  longer,  and  1  ow'd  that  happiness 
To  the  misfortune  of  his  future  absence. 
Whv  did  he  swear  to's  father?    I'm  a  fool. 
And  know  not  what  to  say. 


A&.   I.     Scaen.   7. 

Truman  tilius,  Lucia. 

Tni,     Stay,  Lucia,  prithee  stay ;    I  had  forgot 
The  business  which  I  came  for. 

Luc.     I  owe  much 
To  your  forgetfulness,  my  Truman :   if 
It  be  such  always,  though  you  forget  me, 
III  pardon  you.     What  was  your  ousiness,  pray  i 

Tm.    To  kiss  your  hand,  my  dearest. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Luc.    Was  that  all? 
I'm  glad  to  sec  j'our  grief  so  small  and  light, 
That  it  can  finde  leasurc  to  complement: 
*Tis  not  like  mine,  believe  me. 

Tru.     Was  not  that  business,  Lue'iaf 
In  my  opinion  now,  th'afiairs  of  Kings, 
The  honourable  troubles  of  a  Counsellor, 
Are  frivolous  and  light,  compar'd  to  this. 
May  I  not  kiss  your  lips  too,  dearest  Lucia  f 
I  have  an  inward  dropsie;   and  my  remedy 
Enflamcs  my  thirst:   'tis  that  best  Neflar  onely 
Which  has  the  power  to  quench  it. 

Luc.     If  there  be  Neftar  there. 
It  was  your  lip  that  brought  it  thither  first; 
And  you  may  well  be  bold  to  claim  your  own. 
Shall  we  sit  down  and  talk  a  little  while? 
They  will  allow  us  sure  a  parting-time. 

Tru.     And  that  I  would  not  change,  not  this  poor  minute 
In  which  I  see,  and  hear,  and  touch  thee,  Lucia, 
For  th'age  of  Angels,  unless  thy  lov'd  presence 
Make  a  heav'n  there  for  me  too. 
What  shall  I  do  to  bring  the  days  t'an  end? 
Sure  they'll  be  tedious  when  I  want  thy  company. 

Luc.     I'll  pray  for  the  success  of  our  chaste  loves, 
And  drop  down  tears  for  beads. 

Tru.     I'll  read  o'er  the  large  volume  of  the  creatures; 
And  where  I  finde  one  full  of  grace  and  beauty, 
I'll  gaze  and  think  on  that;  for  that's  thy  piflurc. 

Luc.     Whatever  kinde  of  Needle-work  I  make, 
Thy  name  I'll  intermingle,  till  at  last. 
Without  my  mindes  conjunftion  and  consent, 
The  needle  and  my  hand  shall  both  agree 
To  draw  thy  name  out, 

Tru.     I  will  gather  flowers, 
Turn  wanton  in  the  truness  of  my  love. 
And  make  a  posie  too,  where  Lucia 
Shall  be  mysteriously  writ  in  flow'rs: 
They  shall  be  fair  and  sweet,  such  as  may  paint 
And  speak  thee  to  my  senses. 

fViihin.     Mistress  Lucia^  Lucia. 

Luc.    I  am  call'd:    farewel. 

»74 


THE  GUARDIAN 


Aft.   I.     Scaen.  8. 

Truman  filius,  Lucioy  Aurelia, 

Aur.     My  fistther,  cousin,  would  speak  with  you. 

Luc.     m  wait  upon  him.  Exit* 

Aur.     Will  you  be  gone  so  soon,  Sir? 

Tru.     I  must  ofiend  your  father  else. 

Aur.    You  would  have  stay'd  longer  with  her,  I'm  sure. 

Tru.     It  may  be  so.     Your  servant,  Lady.  Exit. 

Aur.     Contemn'd  by  all?   while  my  proud  cousin  walks 
With  more  eyes  on  her  then  the  moon:   but  I, 
Like  some  small  petty  star  without  a  name, 
Cast  unregarded  beams. 

It  must  not  bej   I  snatch  of  all  those  glories 
Which  beauty  or  feign'd  vertue  crown  her  with. 
Till  her  short  light  confess  her  but  a  Comet. 
I  love  thee,  Truman  \   but  since  'tis  my  fate 
To  love  so  ill,  I'll  try  how  I  can  hate. 

Finis  A^s  primi. 


A&.  2.     Scaen.   i. 

Cuttery  Dogrel. 

Cut.     Come  on,  Dogrely  now  will  I  cut  your  throat. 

Dog.     You'll  be  hang'd  first. 

Cut.     No,  by  this  light. 

Dog.     You'll  be  hang'd  after  then. 

Cut.     I'll  slice  thee  into  steaks. 

Dog.  I  believe  indeed  thou  art  so  hungry,  thou  couldst 
feed  like  a  Cannibal. 

Cut.  No,  thou'lt  be  a  dish  for  the  devil  j  he'll  dress  thee  at 
his  own  fire.  You  call'd  me  Coward:  hadst  thou  as  many 
lives  as  are  in  Plutarch^  I'd  make  an  end  of  'um.  (I  must 
daunt  him,  for  fear  he  should  fight  with  me.)     I  will  not  leave 

'75 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

SO  much  blood  in  thee  as  will  wet  my  nail :  and  for  thjr  flesh, 
ril  mangle  it  in  such  manner,  that  the  Crowes  shall  not  know 
whether  it  were  a  mans  body  or  no. 

Dog,     (He  was  once  a  Coward,  and  I  never  heard  yet  of  his 
reformation) 

Hear  thou  altitonant  Jovty  and  Muses  three. 
(Muses?   a  plague  upon  *um,  I  meant  Furies.) 
Hear,  thou  altitonant  Jove^  and  Furies  three. 

Cut,     Nay  then 
Leap  from  the  leathern  dungeon  of  my  sheath. 
Thou  Durindana  brave. 
(Will  nothing  do  ?)     Come  on,  miscreant.  They  draw. 

Dog,     Do,  do,  strike  if  thou  dar'st. 

Cut,     Coward,  I'll  give  thee  the  advantage  of  the  first  push. 

Dog,     I  scorn  to  take  any  thing  of  thee,  I. 

Cut,     Thou   hadst   better   eat   up   thy  mothers  soul,  then 
touch  me. 

Dog,     If  thou  wilt  not  strike  first,  take  thy  life. 

Cut,     I  had  rather  die  then  give  the  first  blowe,  since  thou 
hast  said  it. 

Dog,     I   see  this  quarrel,  Cutter^  will  come  to  a  quart  of 
wine:    shall's  go? 

Cut,     How  rash  is  anger!    had  not  reason  check'd  me, 
I  should  have  kill'd  my  Poet  for  a  woman, 
A  very  woman.     Let's  sheath,  Dogrel — 


A£l.   2.     Scaen.   2. 

Cutter^  Dogrel^  Puny, 

Here's  company;    'slid  I'll  fight  then. 

Pun,  How  now,  Paynims?  fighting  like  two  sea-fishes  in 
a  map?  slaying  and  killing  like  horse-leaches?  Why  my  little 
gallimaufry,  what  Arms  and  Arts? 

Dog,  Tarn  Martiy  quam  Mercurioj  I.  'Slife,  outbrav'd  by 
a  fellow  that  has  no  more  valour  in  him  then  a  womans  Tailor? 

Cutt,  By  my  fathers  Soul,  I'll  kill  him  an  he  were  an 
Army. 

176 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Pun.     Hold !  stop  I   this  Colonels  spirit's  all  flame. 

Dog.  'Tis  the  flame  of  a  flap-dragon  then,  for  'twill  hurt  no 
body. 

Cutt.     Mr.  Puny^  you  do  me  wrong. 

Pun.     What  do  ye  mean  bufles  ? 

Cutt.     'Slife,  an  you  hinder  me  Puny — 

Pun.  Pox  take  you,  kill  one  another  and  be  hanged  then, 
doc,  stab,  why  don't  ye? 

Cutt.  At  your  command  Mr.  Puny  ?  I'll  be  forc'd  by  no 
man ;  put  up  Dogrely  wee'll  fight  for  no  mans  pleasure  but  our 
own. 

Dog.  Agreed,  I'll  not  make  another  sport  by  murthering 
any  man  though  he  were  a  Tinker. 

Pun.  Why  now  you  speak  like  righteous  Homuncles,  ye 
ha'  both  great  spirits,  as  big  as  Indian-whales,  for  wit  and  valour 
a  couple  of  Phcenixes. 

Cut.  *Tis  my  fiiult  Puny\  I'm  the  resolutest  man  if  I  be 
but  a  little  heated.     Pox  take't,  I'm  a  fool  for't. 

Dog.     Give  me  thy  hand. 

Cutt.  I  did  not  think  thou  hadst  been  so  valiant,  i'faith : 
I  should  have  killed  my  self,  if  I  had  hurt  thee  in  my  fury. 

Dog.     So  should  I  by  this  hand. 

Pun.     This  is  rare !    up  and  down  like  a  game  at  chess. 

Dog.     Why  a  game  at  chess  more  then  any  other  ? 

Pun.  A  game  at  chess  ?  why-pox  thou'rt  a  kinde  of  Poet 
I  confess,  but  for  wit  you  shall  pardon  me — ther's  as  much  in 
Tom  Coriats  shooes.  But  prithee,  why  did  you  two  Pythagorians 
fall  out  ? 

Dog.     A  trifle,  onely  a  Mistris. 

Cutt.  A  pox  take  her,  I  woo'd  her  in  an  humor  onely, 
I  had  rather  nuury  a  wench  of  ginger-bread,  they're  both  of  a 
Complexion. 

Dog.  And  then  her  mouth's  as  wide  as  a  Crocodiles,  her 
kisses  devour  a  man. 

Cutt.  Her  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  needle,  and  her  nose 
pointed  like  that ;  I  wonder  her  hcc  is  no  cleaner,  for  those  two 
perpetually  water  it :  As  for  her  lower  parts,  blessed  are  they 
that  live  in  ignorance. 

Pun.  What  an  Heliogabalus  make  you  of  this  wench? 
would  I  could  see  this  Barbara  Pyramidum. 

C  n.  M  177 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Dog.  Hang  her,  she  looks  like  a  gentlewoman  upon  the  top 
of  a  ballad. 

Cutt,  Shavers,  who  i'the  divels  name  would  you  guess  to 
be  my  Mistris? 

Pun,     Some  wench  at  a  red  lattice. 

Dog,     Some  beast  that  stincks  worse  then  Thames-street. 

Pun,  And  looks  like  a  shoulder  of  mutton  stufit  with 
parsly. 

Cutt.     'Faith  guess  who. 

Pun,     'Tis  impossible  among  so  many  whores. 

Cutt,     'Faith  Tabithoy  none  but  gentle  Mistris  Tabitha. 

Dog,  We  shall  have  him  turn  Brownist  now,  and  read 
Comments  upon  the  Revelations. 

Cutt,  Thou  hast  hit  it  Dogrel:  Tie  put  my  self  into  a  rare 
garbe ;  BuiFe,  thou  must  off,  truly  BuiFe  thou  must. 

Pun,  'Slid  a  good  humour;  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to 
change  religion  too. 

Dog.  Pox !  no  body  will  change  with  me,  I'm  sure.  But 
canst  thou  put  off  swearing  with  BufFe  ?  canst  thou  abstain  in 
the  middle  of  long  grace  from  crying  a  plague  upon  him,  the 
meats  cold  ?  canst  thou  repeat  scripture  enough  to  make  a 
Puritan  ?  Fmc  sure  for  understanding  thou'lt  be  like  enough  to 
any  of  'um. 

Cutt,  Let  mc  alone,  Tic  deal  with  no  oath  above  gods 
fatlikins,  or  by  my  truly :  exclaim  upon  the  sickness  of  drinking 
healths,  and  call  the  PLiycrs  rogues,  sing  psalms,  hear  le£tures; 
and  if  I  chance  to  preach  my  self,  woe  be  to  the  adt,  the  obje^ 
the  use,  and  application. 

Pun,  Thou  art  an  everlasting  stinker  Colonel,  *tis  a  most 
potent  humour,  thcr's  mustard  in't,  it  bits  i'the  nose. 

Cutt.     Dogrely  take  heed  of  swearing  before  Tabitha. 

Dog,  If  I  look  not  as  grave  as  a  Judge  upon  the  bench,  let 
me  be  hanged  for't. 

Pun,  Come  away  Physitians ;  'slid  I'le  be  of  some  Religion 
ere't  be  long  too. 


178 


THE   GUARDIAN 


A9l  2.     Scaen.   3. 

Truman  pater,  Truman  filius. 

Tru.  p.     You  hear  me — 

Tru.  f.     Sir— 

Tru.  p.  Sir  me  no  sirs:  I  say  you  shall  marry  Mistris 
TaUtha. 

Tru.  f.     I  hope  sir — 

Tru,  p.  I,  when  I  bid  you  do  any  thing,  then  you  are  a 
hoping ;  well,  what  do  you  hope  sir  ? 

Tru.  f.     That  you'ld  be  pleas'd — 

Tru.  p.  No,  I  will  not  be  pleas'd  till  I  see  your  manners 
mended:  marry  gap,  you'le  be  teaching  your  father. 

Tru.  f.     I  am — 

Tru.  p.  Go  to,  you*re  a  foolish  boy,  and  know  not  what's 
good  for  your  self :  you  are  ?  what  are  you,  pray  ?  we  shall  ha' 
you  crow  over  your  father. 

Tru.  f.     I  shall  observe — 

Tru.  p.  You  will  not  sure?  will  you  observe  me?  'tis 
very  well  if  my  son  come  to  observe  me  i'my  old  days,  you  will 
observe  me  ?  will  ye  ? 

Tru.  f.     I  mean  sir — 

Tru.  p.  You  shall  mean  what  I  please,  if  you  be  mine : 
I  must  be  bound  to  your  meaning? 

Tru.  f.  It  may  be — 

Tru.  p.  You  11  teach  me  what  may  be,  will  you  ?  do  not 
I  know  what  may  be?  'tis  fine,  'tis  very  fine:  now  i'your 
wisdom,  now  what  may  be? 

Tru.  f.     That  Captain  Blade— 

Tru.  p.  That  what?  what  can  he  do?  I'll  sec  his  nose 
cheese  before  you  shall  marry  his  neece.  Captain  Blade\  a 
swaggering  companion ;  let  'um  swagger,  and  see  what  he  gets 
by  his  swaggering;  I  would  have  swaggered  with  him  for  his 
cars  when  I  was  a  young  man.  And  though  I  ha'  done 
swaggering — well — I  shall  meet  with  Captain  Blade^  I  hold  him 
a  tester  on't — 

Tru.  f.     (Would  he  were  gone.)     I  shall  obey — 

M  2  179 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Tru,  p.  Obey  me  no  obevings,  but  do  what  I  command 
you.  ril  to  the  Widow,  and  talk  about  her  portion :  stay ! 
I  had  almost  forgot  to  tel  you ;  oh — Mistris  TaUtba's  a  ver- 


tuous  maid,  a  very  reh'gious  wench ;  TH  go  speak  concerning  her 
portion. 

Tru,  f.     It  may  be  sir — 

Tru.  p.  You'll  never  leave  this  trick,  you'll  be  at  your 
may-bees;  take  heed  boy,  this  humour  will  undoe  thee— she 
cannot  have  less  then  three  thousand  pounds :  well — ^I'U  go  see — 
and  d'ee  hear  ?  she  goes  plain,  and  is  a  good  huswife ;  which  of 
your  spruce  mincing  squincing  dames  can  make  bone-lace  like 
her?  o  tis  a  notable,  apt,  quick,  witty  girle — Fll  goe  to  her 
mother  about  the  portion.  Exit 

Tru.  f.  About  this  time  her  letter  promised  me  a  meeting 
here :  destiny  it  self  will  sooner  break  its  word  then  she.  Dear 
Mistris,  there's  none  here  besides  your  vassal.     She's  ready — 

A6k.   2.     Scaen.  4. 

Truman  filius,  Lucia  veil'd. 

Ha!    why  this  covering? 

This  is  mistery  darker  then  the  veile 

That  clouds  thy  glorious  face;   unless  t'encrcase 

My  desire  first,  and  then  my  joy  to  see  thee, 

Thou  cast  this  subtler  night  before  thy  beauty. 

And  now  like  one  scorched  with  some  raging  feaver, 

Upon  whose  flames  nor  dew  nor  sleep  hath  fain, 

I  could  begin  to  quarrel  with  the  darkness, 

And  blame  the  slothful  rising  of  the  morn ; 

But  with  more  gladness  entertain't,  then  they, 

Whose  icy  dwellings  the  cold  Bare  orelooks. 

When  after  half  the  yeers  continued  night. 

And  the  most  tedious  night  of  all  but  death ; 

A  sudden  light  shot  from  their  horizon. 

Brings  the  long  wisht-for  day,  which  with  such  glory 

Leaps  from  the  East,  as  doth  thy  mateless  beauty. 

When  thus  the  mist  departs —  yjff^^  '*  P*^ 

Why  shrinkst  thou  back?  atuaj  thi 

I  prithee  let  me  see  thee,  Lucia.  veil. 

180 


THE  GUARDIAN 

I'd  rather  some  good  power  would  strike  me  blinde, 

Then  lose  the  cause  for  which  I  love  mine  eyes: 

At  least  speak  to  me:   well  may  I  call  it  night, 

When  silence  too  has  Joyn'd  it  self  to  darkness. 

And  did  I  not  swear  I  would  not — 

Thy  witty  goodness  can  save  others  too 

From  sinning :   I  had  quite  forgot  my  oath : 

Yet  sure  an  oath  forc'd  from  a  lovers  tongue 

Is  not  recorded  in  heav'ns  dreadful  book, 

But  scattered  loosely  by  that  breath  that  made  it. 

However  thy  blest  Letter  makes  me  patient: 

Thou  giv'st  all  vertues:   I  can  love  thee  thus. 

And  though  thy  skin  were  such,  that  it  might  seem 

A  black  veil  cast  by  nature  o'er  thy  body. 

Yet  I  wo\ild  love  thee,  Lucia:  every  night, 

Which  is  the  harvest-time  of  all  our  hopes. 

Will  make  thee  as  th'art  now;   and  dost  thou  think 

I  shall  not  love  thee  most  then  ? 

We  trifle  here:    PU  follow  thee,  O  heaven; 

Prosper  the  wise  invention  which  it  hath  taught  thee. 

Exeunt, 

Aft.  2.     Scaen.  5. 

Captain  Blade^  Servant. 

Bla.  Is  he  carried  to  prison  ?  that  damn'd  Urinal-monger, 
that  stinking  Clyster-pipe-rogue !  that  ignorant  Sattin  cap !  He 
has  not  so  much  physick  as  would  cure  the  tooth-ach.  A  slave 
that  poisons  Gentlemen,  to  keep  his  hand  in  ure.  Must  a  slave 
come  up  stairs,  mount  the  bank  for  money,  and  not  be  dis- 
honouretd  down?  He  look'd  as  patiently  then,  as  any  Fidler 
need  to  do.  Give  me  some  small  beer,  and  the  godly  book ; 
I  must  not  go  to  hell;  there  are  too  many  Physitians  there. 
I  was  never  in  a  worse  disposition  to  die,  in  my  life :  my  guts 
begin  to  squeak  already.  Nothing  vexes  me  now,  but  that 
I  shall  stand  pidtur'd  in  a  Ballad,  with  Beware  the  physitiany  or 
some  such  sentence,  coming  out  of  my  mouth.  I  shall  be  sung 
in  Smithfield :  not  a  blinde  Ale-house,  but  the  life  and  miserable 

181 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

death  of  captain  Blade  shall  be  pasted  up  in :  there  shall  I  be 
brought  confessing  my  sins  at  the  later  end,  and  giving  good 
counsel.  (You  will  be  jumbling  still.)  Ten  to  one  but 
Dogrel  makes  an  Epitaph ;  there's  another  mischief.  Here,  take 
the  book  again ;  Fll  not  trouble  my  brain  now  I'm  a  dying. 

Serv.  Here's  the  widow,  Sir,  and  her  daughter,  come  to  see 
you ;  and  they  have  brought  M.  Knockdown  to  comfort  you. 

Bla.  How  ?  everlasting  Knockdown  ?  'Slid,  will  they  trouble 
a  man  when  he's  a  dying  ?  Sirrah,  blockhead,  let  in  Knockdown^ 
and  ril  send  thee  to  heaven  before  me.  I  ha'  but  an  hour  to 
live,  my  Physitian  says,  and  that's  too  little  for  him  to  preach  in. 

Serv.     Shall  I  let  the  widow  come  in  ? 

Blade.  That's  a  she-Knockdown  too.  Well,  let  her  come 
in ;  I  must  bear  all  torments  patiently  now.  But,  rogue,  take 
heed  of  yoseph  Knockdown :  thou  shalt  not  live  with  ears,  if 
Joseph  Knockdown  enter.     A  plague  upon  all  Physitians. 


A&.   2.     Scaen.   6. 

Capt.  Bladey  IVidoWy  Tabytha, 

Wid.     How  do  you  ?   how  is't.  Sir  ? 

Bla.     Cut  off  i'the  flower  o'  my  age,  widow. 

Wtd.     Not  so.  Sir,  you  are  old,  neighbour,  God  he  knows. 

Bla.     V  the  very  flower,  i'faith.     That  damn'd  quacksalver. 

Tab.  He  look'd  like  a  rogue;  a  man  might  know  him 
for  a  rogue,  by  his  very  eyes.  Take  comfort.  Sir;  ye  know 
we  must  all  die  sooner  or  later.  Our  life  is  compared  to  a 
flower ;  and  a  flower  is  subjcdt  to  uncertainty,  as  M.  Knockdown 
observes. 

Bla.  O  the  torture  of  such  a  tongue !  Would  I  were  dead 
already. 

JVid.  Alas,  good  man!  his  tongue,  I  warrant  ye,  is  hot: 
look  how  he  raves,  daughter !  I  have  heard,  indeed,  that  many 
rave  when  they  are  poison'd.     Think  o'  your  sins.  Sir. 

Bla,  I  prithee  molest  me  not ;  there's  none  of  *um  worth 
thinking  of.  I'm  hotter  then  a  dozen  of  Fevers :  give  me  a  cup 
of  Sack  there :  Shall  I  die  thirsty  ? 

182 


THE   GUARDIAN 

fVid.  By  no  means,  M.  Blade.  Fellow,  take  heed  what  ye 
give  him :  he  must  ha'  none ;  it  breeds  inflammations. 

Bla.  I'll  never  repent  without  a  cup  of  Sack.  Do,  do, 
chuse  whether  you'll  ha'me  sav'd  or  no. 

fVid.  For  bis  souls  sake  then,  I'll  drink  to  him  in  a  cup  of 
Sack.  Drinks. 

Bla.  To  my  good  journey,  widow.  Sirrah,  fill  me  a  brim- 
mer.    Here,  Tahytba.  Drinks, 

A6k.   2.     Scsen.   7. 

Bladiy  IVidoWy  Tabytha^  Aurelia^  Cutter^  DogreL 

Aur.     Stand  to  't  now. 

Dog.  I'll  virarrant  you  I'll  stand  like  a  knight  o'the  post :  I'll 
forswear  with  the  devil.  As  for  Cutter^  he  has  don't  fourty 
times  before  a  Judge  already. 

Aur.     My  dearest  father,  though  we  cannot  call 
The  sentence  of  fate  back  that's  past  upon  you. 
Yet  heav'n  has  mixt  some  mercy  with  its  anger. 
And  shewn  us  the  curst  plotters  of  your  ruine. 

Bla.  How  now,  varlets?  ye  see  I'm  going  to  heaven,  and 
yc  must  follow;  but  the  Captain  must  be  sav'd  before  the 
Colonel.    Who  art  thou?   a  godly  Weaver? 

Cut.  I  am  not  he  that  I  was  of  old :  what  hath  passed,  is 
gone  and  vanisheth  \  but  what  is  now,  remaineth. 

IVid.  No  I'll  besworn  is  he  not;  never  was  Christian 
creature  so  alter'd,  as  they  say. 

Tab.  He  said  a  prayer  last  night  so  zealously,  that  all  the 
house  heard  him,  did  they  not?    Brother  M.  Cutter. 

Cut.  Sister,  I  did  pour  out  my  self  last  night.  Captain, 
y'are  abus'd. 

Bla.     A  small  abuse ;  nothing  but  onely  poison'd. 

Dog.  Yes  'faith,  we  saw  the  Physitian,  Mistress  Lucia  and 
Truman  consulting  all  together:  the  Physitian  pluck'd  a  box 
out,  shew'd  it  them;  they  seem'd  to  approve:  an  'oath  of 
secresie  we  beard  them  take,  but  suspected  nothing,  by  this 
hand.    We  honest  men  do  seldom  suspedt  others. 

Bla.     Is  this  true.  Colonel  ? 

183 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut.  Should  I  say  it  is  not  true,  I  should  not  tell  the  truth 
if  I  should  say  so. 

Bla,     You  swear  'tis  true  ? 

Cut.     Before  an  Elder  I  shall  swear. 

Bla.  Aurelioy  send  for  'um  immediately,  as  if  I  meant  to  see 
*um  contradled;  and  bid  the  servants  be  ready  to  carry  'um 
away.     I'll  see  'um  clapt  up  close  before  I  die. 

Aur.     I  go,  Sir.  Exit. 


Aft.   2.     Scaen.  8. 


Bladey  JVidoWy  Tabythoy  Cuttery  Dogrely  Lucia. 

Luc.     Dearest  Uncle, 
I  come  to  beg  one  boon  of  you,  the  last 
Which  you  can  grant  me,  or  I  need  to  wish. 

Bla.     Speak,  gentle  Neece. 

Luc.     That  since  the  love  'twixt  Truman  and  my  self 
Hath  been  so  fixt,  and  (as  our  fortunes)  equal, 
You  will  be  pleas'd  to  seal  with  your  last  breath 
The  confirmation  of  our  loves,  our  Contract: 
And  when  your  soul  shall  meet  in  heav'n  my  fathers, 
As  foon  as  he  has  bid  you  welcome  thither. 
He'll  thank  you  for  our  marriage. 

Bla.  Oh  by  all  means:  where's  gentle  M.  Truman f  He*s 
sorry  for  my  death,  good  man,  I  warrant  ye.  Weep  not  for 
me,  dear  Neece,  I  know  it  greives  you.  Where's  loving  Mr. 
Truman  ? 

Luc.  Without  Sir,  waiting  on  your  will,  as  on  the  voice  of 
his  good  fate. 

Bla.     Pray  call  him  in.  Exit  Luc. 

Sirrah,  fetch  two  or  three  more  of  my  knaves  in. 

Dog.  Oh  the  dissembling  of  these  women ;  they're  like  a 
folded  piflure,  that  every  diversity  of  light  represents  divcrsly. 

Bla.  Hang  all  women  beside  you  and  your  daughter,  widow : 
I  could  almost  like  Mahomets  religion,  for  turning  all  the  sex  out 
of  Heaven. 

184 


THE   GUARDIAN 


A(9:.   2.     Scsen.  9. 

Bladiy  CutteTy  Dogre/y  fVidoWy  Tabithay  Truman  filius, 

Lucia  veil'd. 

Tru.     *Tis  as  we  wisht,  dear  Lady ;  O  this  blest  hour ! 

Bla.  Away  with  'um  immediately,  let  'um  be  sent  to  prison 
straight. 

Tru.  What  means  this  rudeness?  I  understand  not  this 
incivility. 

Cutt.  Ungratious  children,  ye  have  poysoned  a  most  vertuous 
Souldier  here. 

Tru.     I  poysoned  ?   what  d'ye  mean  ? 

Bla,  Away  with  'um  I  say,  they  shall  finde  another  place  to 
answer  for't.  Exeunt  ServantSy  with  Truman  and  Lucia. 

fVid.     Hei  ho !   what  pitty  'tis. 

Cutt.  Captain,  prithee  away  with  these  two  impertinences ; 
since  you  must  dye,  let's  have  a  parting  cup  for  shame. 

Bla.     But  thou  art  turn'd  Apostate. 

Cutt.  I  did  but  fain  all  this  *,  I'm  as  very  a  Rogue  as  ever 
I  was. 

Bla.  Thou  speakst  righteously,  we  will  not  make  a  dry  far- 
wcl  on't.  Widow,  I  have  some  business  with  these  two ;  shall 
I  desire  privacy  a  little  while  ? 

fVid.  Fare  ye  well.  Mr.  Cuttery  you  can  speak  comfortably 
to  him :  I'll  see  you  again  anon.  Oh  the  wickedness  of  these 
worldlings?    Come  Tabitha,  Exeunt  Widow  and  Tabitha. 

Bla.  The  Doftor  says,  I  shall  dye  without  pain ;  therefore 
my  sparks  of  Asi^  let's  be  merry  for  a  while.  Boy,  fetch  some 
wine  and  an  hour-glass. 

Cutt.  An  hour-glass !  what  emblem  shall  we  have  ?  bring  a 
sithe  too;  and  this  same  lean,  greedy,  hungry  Poet,  shall  aft 
Time  here.  Enter  boy  with  wincy  and  an  hour  glass. 

Bla.  Well  said  my  little  Pawn.  So,  thus  I'll  husband  my 
time.  According  to  my  Emperick's  computation  I  am  to  live 
an  hour ;  half  which  I  do  allot  to  drink  with  you,  a  quarter  to 
settle  some  business;  and  the  rest,  to  good  meditations  and 
repentance.     How  like  ye  this  my  gallants? 

18s 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cutt,  Most  Logically  divided;  never  Scholer  divided  mess 
better  The  boy  fiU  wine. 

Bla,  How  it  sparkles !  Never  be  drunk  again  ?  My  Homer 
junior,  have  at  thee ;  this  will  string  up  thy  Muse :  rejoyce  young 
frog  of  Hellicon,  Drinks. 

Dog,     No,  rather  let  me  weep,  drop  briny  tears, 

Till  I  like  Niobe— 

Cutt,  There's  a  piece  of  her  sticks  in  his  throat  still,  drink 
it  down  DogreL 

Bla.  Do,  for  when  I  am  once  gone,  ye  must  c*cn  like 
Mahumetansy  count  wine  a  thing  forbidden. 

Cutt.     Let's  drink,  let's  drink,  whilst  life  we  have: 
You'll  finde  but  cold  drinking,  cold  drinking  in  the  grave. 

Dog.     A  catch  i'faith. 
Boy  go  down. 
And  fill's  the  tother  quart; 
That  we  may  drink  the  Captains  health, 
Before  that  we  do  part. 

Cutt.     Why  dost  thou  frown,  thou  arrant  Clown  &c. 

Bla.     Ha  hei  boy's!   another  catch  i'faith. 
And  all  our  men  were  very  very  merry. 
And  all  our  men  were  drinking, 

Cutt.     One  man  o'  mine. 

Dog.     Two  men  o'  mine, 

Bla.     Three  men  o'  mine, 

Cutt.     And  a  man  o'  mine, 

Om.     As  we  went  by  the  way,  were 
Drunk,  Drunk,  Damnable  Drunk; 
And  all  our  men  were  very  very  merry  &c. 

Bla.  Hei  brave  boys!  now.  Cutter^  thou  art  a  pretious 
Puritan. 

Cutt.  And  thou  a  puissant  Captain.  Some  wou'd  ha*  pin'd, 
and  kept  a  quarter,  and  howl'd  at  their  death,  and  ha*  been 
more  froward  and  troublesome  then  a  Citizens  wife  when  she 
takes  Physick.     This  is  true  valour. 

Dog.     Sure  he  has  dy'd  before,  he's  so  expert  at  it. 


l86 


THE  GUARDIAN 


A61  2.     Scaen.   lo. 


To  these,  old  Truman. 

Bla.     What  savs  old  Priam  to  Achilles  great  ? 

Tru,  *Tis  well,  Fm  glad  to  see  you  in  you[r]  Priams ;  but 
for  all  your  Priams,  and  your  Killisses,  what  ha'  you  done  with 
my  Son  ? 

Bla.     Thrice  was  thy  HeSfor  drawn  about  the  walls. 

Gutt,     Xanthus  and  Simoisy  with  his  purple  gore. 

Dog.     Alas,  and  welladay!   we  are  stain'd  all  o're. 

Om.     Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Tru.  *Tis  very  well,  excellent  well,  all's  well  that  ends 
well ;  I  say — I  shall  finde  Law  I  hope.  My  Son  Did  in 
prison,  and  old  Did  laughed  at  here  by  Raggamuffins:  'Tis 
very  excellent  well ;  I  thank  you  gentlemen,  I  thank  you 
heartily. 

Bla.  'Tis  not  so  much  worth  i'feith  Sir ;  what  do  you  mean 
Sir  ?   pray  spare  your  courtesie,  nay,  I  pray  be  covered  Sir. 

TVk.  It  may  be  so,  'tis  very  likely  Sir,  an  there  be  Law  in 
Westminster — 

Cutt.     — And  what  dost  thou  mean,  old  man  ? 

Dog.     — And  what  dost  thou  mean,  old  man  ? 

Cutt.     — If  thou   mean'st  to  live  long,  plump,  lusty,  and 
strong ; 

Dog.     — Then  take  of  the  cup  and  the  Can. 

Om.     Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Tru.     Well,  I'm  made  a  laughing  stock,  it  seems. 

Bla.     And  good  Sir — 

Tru.  Yes,  I  am  made  the  laughing  stock  ;  I  shall  take  some 
other  course,  I  hold  you  a  groat.  Rest  ye  merry  Gentlemen, 
I  pray  be  merry,  very  very  merry. 

Dog.     Nay,  you  shall  stay  and  drink  first. 

Tru.     Shall  I,  yadsauce?  Strikes  off 

Pray  Sir,  be  you  covered  too.  his  hat. 

Bla.  Come  old  Jethroy  here's  a  cup  of  wine  will  stir  thy 
brains  again,  they're  mouldy  now. 

187 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Tru.  I,  you'd  poyson  mc,  wouM  you  ?  *tis  very  well  if  a 
man  may  be  sufFered  to  poyson  whom  he  pleases. 

Breakis  the  glass, 

Bla.     No,  your  good  Son  has  got  the  art  of  poysoning. 

Tru.     My  Son?     Thou  licst.     My  Son? 

B/a.  If  ye  be  raging  Lyon-mad,  d'ye  see  that  door?  Be 
gone  to  your  Son,  and  take  some  juice  of  Opium :  Thou  wants 
sleep,  Jethro.  Truman  offers  to  go  «/, 

and  turns  hack  again. 

Tru.     There's  Law,  Captain. 

Bla.     There  is  so;   wou'd  you'd  go  fetch  it. 

Tru.     Nay,  there's  none  it  seems. 

Bla.     True,  there  shall  be  no  Law,  so  you'll  be  gone. 

Tru,  There  shall  be  no  Law,  say  vour  I  desire  no  more, 
'tis  very  exceeding  dainty.  There  shall  be  no  Law ;  I  desire 
no  more,  'tis  a  kinde  of  petty  Treason :  You'll  remember.  Sir, 
that  there  shall  be  no  Law :  That's  enough,  I  pray  remember 
Sir:  and  so  farewell.     There  shall  be  no  Law.  Exit. 

Bla.  This  worm-eaten  old  fellow  has  spoil'd  our  sport.  And 
what  says  my  hour-glass  now  ?    Time  was  i'faith. 

Cutt.     How  do  you  feel  your  self  ? 

Bla.  As  hot  as  Hell.  Come  wee'l  take  our  last  farewd 
within;  and  farwcl  here  all  drinking.  God  send  me  a  good 
journey,  I  say. 

Dog.     Then  briny  tears  come  trickling  down  apace, 
For  loss  of  him — 

Cutt.     And  what? 

Dog.     Nay,  ye  put  me  out.  Exeunt. 

Finis  ASlm  Secundi. 

AQ..  3.     Scsen.    i. 

Dogrely  Aurelia. 

Dog.     Not  poysoned  you  say? 

Au.     No,  he's  as  well  as  we. 

Dog.  It  may  be  he  has  more  lives  then  one,  or  used  himself 
to  poyson ;  as  we  now,  that  are  Scholars,  and  Poets  read,  of  one 
Mithidrates. 

188 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Au,     He  was  never  sick. 

D9g.     Yes,  very  hot 

Au.  I,  as  a  painted  fire,  his  fancy  made  him  so ;  I  smell  a 
plot  in't.  Luciay  you  say,  urged  him  then  for  Truman.  'Twas 
a  meer  plot,  I  doubt,  to  put  him  in  fear  of  death. 

Dog.  I  shall  be  taken  for  a  kind  of  Rogue  then,  for  bearing 
false  witness. 

Au.     You  shall  not  be  mistaken,  Sir,  at  all. 

Dog.     PilloryM,  and  whipt,  with  my  godly  brother  Cutter. 

Au.  Abus'd  by  the  Prentices  as  you  walk  in  the  streets,  and 
have  rotten  apples  flung  at  you. 

Dog.  Have  a  hundred  blustring  oaths  o'  mine  no  more  be- 
leeved,  then  when  I  swear  to  my  Creditors,  I'll  pay  all. 

Au.  Be  abandoned  by  all  men  above  a  Tapster;  and  not 
dare  to  looke  a  gentleman  i'the  face ;  unless  perhaps  you  sneak 
into  a  Play-house,  at  the  fifth  A61. 

Dog.  If  ever  I  have  to  do  with  women  again,  but  i'the  way 
of  all  flesh,  may  I  dye  an  Eunuch.  I'll  never  lye  or  swear  here- 
after, but  for  my  self.  Were  not  you  the  vertuous  gentle- 
woman, with  the  brown  paper-face,  that  perswaded  me  to  it  ? 

Au.  The  very  same.  Sir ;  and  I  ha'  just  such  another  exploit 
here  to  imploy  thee  in :  therefore  be  secret,  close  as  a  cokle,  my 
good  Rymer. 

Dog.     To  imploy  me  in  ! 

Au.     Nay,  you  must  do't  i'faith ;  I  ha'  sworn  first,  Dogrel. 

Dog.  By  this  good  light,  I  will  do  nothing  at  thy  intreaty : 
not  if  thou  shouldst  intreat  me  to  lye  with  thee.  Must  Poet 
Dogrelf 

Au.  I,  must,  if  he  intend  e're  to  drink  Sack  again ;  or  to 
make  more  use  of  his  little-pocket,  then  to  carry  Tavern-bills 
in't ;  must  do't,  unless  he  intend  to  die  without  a  shirt,  and  be 
buried  without  a  winding-sheet. 

Dog.     I  like  thy  wit  yet  wench,  what  is't  ? 

Au.  I  would  marry  Puny;  he's  rich  you  know,  and  a 
bravery,  and  a  wit. 

Dog.     He  says  himself  he  is  so ;  but  few  are  of  his  faith. 

Au.     He  dances  too,  and  courteth  the  Ladies. 

Dog.     Yes,  in  more  postures  then  a  dozen  of  Bowlers. 

Au.  But  he's  rich,  Dogrelf  and  will  be  wise  enough  ;  when 
I  have  got  'um  knighted,  then  I  shall  be  a  Lady,  Dogrel;  have 

189 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

a  dozen  of  French-Taylors,  Doflors,  Jewellere,  Pertumere, 
Tyre-women,  to  sit  in  consultation  every  morning,  how  I  shall 
be  drest  up  to  play  at  Gleek,  or  dance,  or  see  a  Comedy,  or  go 
to  the  Exchange  i'the  afternoon ;  send  every  day  my  Gentle- 
nian,to  know  how  such  a  Lady  slept,  and  dream'd;  orwhether 
her  dog  be  yet  in  perfc£^  health :  Then  have  the  young  smell- 
ing braveries ;  all  adore  me,  and  cut  their  arms,  if  I  be  pleased 
to  be  angry :  Then  keep  my  close  and  open  Coaches,  my 
yellow  sattin  Pages,  Monkies,  and  women,  or  (as  they  call  *uin) 
creatures. 

Dog.  fie  then  a  politick.  Lady ;  keep  none  but  ugly  ones, 
you'll  ne'er  be  handsome  else.  But  suppose  all  this,  what's  this 
to  Dsgrel} 

Dogrtl  shall  be  maintain'd  by  me,  he  shall  ha'  fine  n 


Sergey  and  every  day  more  wine  then's  drunk  at  a  Coronation. 

Dog.  This  qualifies.  And  when  the  good  Knight's  dicing, 
or  at  bowls,  or  gathering  notes  in  private  out  o'  Romances; 
might  not  Dogrcl  have  a  bit? 

Au.  Yes,  like  enough  your  Poetry  might  tempt  some  of  mjf 
under-women  to't.  But  are  you  prepar'd  to  cheat,  in  your  own 
behalf,  and  mine  ? 

Dog.     I,  but  how  must  this  be  done  ? 

Au.     Why  thus  briefly.     First  read  this  Letter. 

Dog.     {reads)     Dearest  Truman, 

We  have  long  desired  to  be  contrafled  together,  that  nothing 
might  be  wanting  to  our  Loves,  but  Ceremony:  To  night 
about  nine  a  clock,  I  shall  finde  opportunity  to  meet  you  at  the 
garden  door,  and  let  you  in;  silence,  and  the  help  of  veiles, 
will  save  the  violating  of  your  oath.     Farewel. 

Yours,  Luc.  Bladt. 
I'faith,  was  this  her  writing? 

Au.  No,  but  the  hand's  as  like  hers  as  the  left  is  to  the  right. 
This  you  shall  shew  to  Puny ;  and  tell  him  that  you  found  or 
stole  it  from  Truman:  I  need  not  I  suppose  instrudl  you,  to 
polish  over  a  lye ;  he  knows  their  love,  and  cannot  suspect  any 
thing ;  perswade  him  to  make  use  of  the  occasion,  and  come 
himself. 

Dag.     And  you'll  meet  him  vail'd. 

Au.     Hast  thou  found  it  out?   thou  hast  shrew'd  reaches 
DogrtL 
190 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Dog.     rU  do't.     Thou  Shalt  be  blest.     I'U  do't  i'faith. 

jtu.  About  it  then;  I'll  leave  you:  and  fail  not,  Dogrel; 
remember  wine  and  serge.  But  first,  I  have  another  way  t' 
undoe  thee,  Ijuciai   And  that  I'll  try  too.  Exit, 

Dog,  Go  thy  ways  girl  for  one,  and  that's  for  Puny  I  hope ; 
I  sec  thou'lt  ne'er  turn  Semstress,  nor  teach  girls ;  thou'dst  be 
a  rare  wife  for  me,  I  should  beget  on  thee  Donnes^  and  yohnsons : 
but  thou  art  too  witty.  We  men  that  are  witty,  know  how  to 
rule  our  selves,  can  cheat  with  a  safe  conscience ;  'tis  charity  to 
help  thee,  Jurelioy  and  I  will  do't,  and  merit. 

Exit. 


A(9:.   3.     Scsen.   2. 

Truman  filius.  Solus. 

Tru.     Our  minds  are  like  the  Sea,  and  every  Passion 
Like  some  fierce  Tempest  stricken  from  the  North, 
Disturbs  the  Peaceful  calmness  of  our  thoughts : 
Custom  of  anger  drives  us  from  our  selves. 
The  Adrian  Gulf  a  milder  fury  hurries ; 
Those  Waves  touch  Heaven,  but  these  arise  to  Hell. 
Sometimes  the  winged  whirle-wind  of  blind  Avarice 
Shoots  it  self  forth,  and  sweeps  up  all  before  it. 
Now  we  with  greedy  hope,  knock  at  the  Sphears, 
Anon  the  deadly  hand  of  cold  dispair 
Throws  us  beneath  the  grave  :   and  midst  these  dangers 
The  flame  of  Love  appears  in  stead  of  lightning ; 
And  with  sad  glory  frights  the  night  it  self. 
Oh !    'tis  a  subtil  fire  !   and  kills,  but  wounds  not. 
Good  God !    What  more  then  man  can  safely  pass 
The  Billows,  Rocks,  and  Monsters  of  this  Ocean, 
Unless  some  pow'r  Divine,  become  his  Pilot? 
For  then  the  windes  would  scatter,  the  waves  shrink. 
And  th'outworn  storm  sufFer  it  self  a  shipwrack. 


191 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 


A  A  3.     Scaen.  3. 

Junliay  Tajhr^  Truman  filius. 

Am.  Thanks  good  Taylor ;  now  Fll  onely  beg  that  I  may 
buy  TOur  secrecy :  Fare  thee  well.  Friend.  at  tbi  dmr. 

Try.     Ha !    I  did  but  speak  just  now  of  Heav'nly  pow'n. 
And  my  good  Ange!  enters!    welcome 
Lucia \   I  can  scarce  say  so  here,  yet  welcome  heartily: 
You  see  how  ill  our  honest  Plot  succeeds; 
I  see  we  must  out-weary  fortunes  anger, 
And  I  have  armM  mv  self  for*t — ha ! 

Sht  giz  a  kirn  a  nstfy  and  imbraces  him.     Hi  reads, 

I  have  with  much  ado  gotten  to  you,  and  can  stay  with  you 
to  night.  { Ha  !)  Why  should  we  defer  our  joys  longer,  since 
we  are  married  in  heart  r  The  opportunit}',  and  impatience  of 
such  delays,  forced  me  to  desire  that  which  else  my  modesty 
would  not  suffer  me — (Modesty :) — Your  desires — to  your  bed — 
long   wisht-for — (why   this    is    strange)   hum — hum — hum — 

Yours,  Lucia. 
No,  no,  thou  art  not  Lucia,     If  thou  dost 
(As  thou  saist)  love  me,  do  not  use  that  name.    She  embraces^ 
Some  devil  has  chang'd  thee —  and  goes  U  kiss  him. 

This  is  worse  stil — with  much  ado — to  night — joys  longer — 
opportunity —  Reads :  then  walks 

about  tf}e  room ;  goes  to  the 
Candlty  and  burns  the  Letter, 
May  all  remembrance  of  thee  perish  with  thee, 
Unhappie  paper,  made  of  guilty  linen. 
The  mcnstruous  reliques  of  some  lustful  woman : 
The  very  ashes  here  will  not  be  innocent. 
But  flie  about,  and  hurt  some  chaste  mens  eyes, 
As  they  do  mine.  Weeps. 

Oh  thou  that  once  wert  Lucia!   thy  soul 
Was  softer  then,  and  purer  then  swans  feathers. 
Then  thine  own  skin:   Two  whitest  things,  that  paper, 
And  thine  own  self,  thou  didst  at  once  ddile. 

192 


THE  GUARDIAN 

But  now  th'art  blacker  then  the  skin  that  covers  thee: 

And  that  same  gloomy  shade  not  so  much  hides 

Thy  Bodies  colour,  as  it  shews  thy  Mindes.  She  kneels. 

Kneel  not  to  me,  fond  woman,  but  to  heav'n; 

And  prithee  weep:   tears  will  wash  cleaner  Ethiops — 

Wouldst  thou  have  had  me  been  mine  own  adult'rer? 

Before  my  Marriage  too?     Wouldst  thou  ha'  giv'n  me 

An  earnest  of  the  horns  I  was  to  wear? 

Is  Marriage  onely  a  Parenthesis 

Betwixt  a  maid  and  wife?     Will  they  remain 

Entire  without  it?     Go,  pray  go  back, 

And  leave  me  too,  since  thou  hast  left  thy  self: 

When  peace  is  made  with  heav'n,  'tis  made  with  me. 

Exit  Aurelia. 
What  are  these  women  made  of?     Sure  we  men 
Are  of  some  better  mold.     Their  vows  and  oaths 
Are  like  the  poisonous  Spiders  subtil  net, 
As  dangerous  to  entrap,  and  broke  as  soon. 
Their  love,  their  faith,  their  selves  enslav'd  to  passion. 
Nothing's  at  their  command,  except  their  tears. 
And  we  frail  men,  whom  such  heat-drops  entice. 
Hereafter  I  will  set  my  self  at  liberty. 
And  live  more  free  then  is  the  air  I  breathe  in: 
And  when  I  sigh,  henceforth,  it  shall  not  be 
For  love  of  one,  but  pity  of  all  the  Sex.  Exit, 


A(9:.   3.     Scsen.  4. 

Dogrely  Puny, 

Pun.     But  how  shall  I  represent  this  Anthropophagus  ? 

Dog.  Onely  speak  softly,  lest  she  chance  to  know  your 
voice. 

Pun.  I  warrant  you  I'll  whisper  like  wet  wood  in  a  Justices 
chimney  at  Christmas. 

Dog.  But  of  all  things,  take  heed  of  too  much  wit ;  that's 
always  dangerous,  but  especially  now.  Truman^  you  know,  is 
an  honest  harmless  fellow,  and  is  contented  to  speak  sense. 

en.  N  193 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Pun.  I,  hang  him ;  there's  clotted  cream  in  his  head  in  stead 
of  brains ;  and  no  more  o'  that  then  will  compleatly  serve  to  fill 
the  eye  of  a  needle.  But  I  shall  ne'er  abstain  from  these  fine 
things,  hyperboles  and  similitudes:  my  nature  stands  a  tiptoe: 
Truman  has  got  the  cramp ;  his  genius  is  like  some  gouty  Alder- 
man's that  sits  in  a  chair.  An'  I  were  in  Phalaris'sDvlVj  I  think 
I  should  be  witty. 

Dog.  Nay,  I  know't;  a  man  may  as  well  keep  a  prentice 
from  Moor-nelds  on  a  holiday,  as  you  from  your  Muses^  and 
C[o]nundrums ;   they're  meat  and  drink  to  you. 

Pun.  No,  my  good  bag-pipe,  they're  meat  and  drink  to  you, 
that  feed  by  'um. 

Dog.  I  see  you're  ashamed  of  the  Muses,  and  I  hope  they're 
even  with  you.  But  so  much  for  this :  you'll  finde  wine,  I  hope, 
when  I  have  found  you  the  wench. 

Pun.  Though  thou  wouldst  drink  cups  bigger  then  Pauls- 
steeple,  or  the  great  bell  at  Westminster,  thou  shouldst  have 
'um.  How  long  dost  thou  think  has  this  night  worn  her 
mourning-gown,  and  lookt  like  a  funeral  ? 

Dog,  Indeed,  she  has  many  torches.  Why  sure,  'tis  just 
about  the  Critical  time  which  she  appointed.  You  know  your 
business :  First  break  a  piece  of  Grold ;  profess  before  Heav'n 
and  Angels,  you  take  her  for  your  wife ;  then  give  her  half  of 
it :  and  after  that,  somewhat  as  you  understand  me. 

Pun.  Will  she  be  malleable,  d'ye  think  ?  Shall  I  stamp  Puny 
on  her? 

Dog.  There's  a  Metaphor  indeed  !  It  seems  'tis  the  fashion; 
you  take  your  wife  for  Gold.  Hark  !  the  door  opens,  use  your 
fortune  well.  Exit. 

Pun.     Now,  if  my  Alcocadin  be  right,  I'm  sure,  I  am  made. 

She  opens  the  door^  and  lets  him  in. 

Aft.  3.     Scaen.  5. 

Captain  Bladey  Servant. 

Bla.  Pox  upon  'um,  they  put  me  into  a  horrible  fear;  but 
I  am  glad  I  am  so  happily  cheated,  for  all  that.  Well,  I  must 
devise  some  horrible  lye,  to  justifie  my  fears;  some  trick  must 

J94 


THE  GUARDIAN 

be  thought  upon  to  gull  Truman.  How  now?  What  nevrs 
from  Tripoly. 

Serv,  Sad  news,  my  Lord  ;  here's  an  Army  at  the  door,  to 
spcaUk  with  you. 

Bla.  Who  arc  they?  Creditors?  a  Merchant,  a  Mercer, 
a  Scrivener,  a  Taylor,  a  Butcher,  Six  Cookes,  a  dozen  of  Vint- 
ners, and  the  rest  ?  Ha  ?  Tell  'um  I  am  sick,  taking  Physick, 
or  else  abroad  \  hang  'um  Rogues,  come  like  quotidian  Agues  on 
a  man. 

Strv.  No,  Sir,  'tis  old  Mr.  Trumany  the  Widow,  and  her 
daughter,  and  Mr.  Dogrely  and  I  know  not  who ;  there's  a  stock 
of  'um. 

Bla.     They  are  those  I  wisht  for,  let  'um  in.  Exit  Sirv. 

Now,  Signior  Blade^  If  ever  thou  wouldst  see  the  golden  age  of 
yore,  this  is  the  time. 

A(9:.  3.     Scsen.  6. 

Bladcy  Truman  Pater,  fVidoWy  Dogrel. 

Tru.  O  Sir,  my  Son  has  poyson'd  you,  I  see;  there's  no 
Law  yet,  is  there? 

Bia.     Mr.  Truman — 

Tru.  True  me  no  more  then  I  true  you.  Come,  Captain 
Bladty  I  know  what  you  are,  and  so  shall  others  too. 

Bla.     You'll  hear  me.  Sir,  I  hope — 

Tru.  And  so  shall  you  hear  me.  Sir ;  I  can  be  heard,  I  would 
you  should  know,  in  as  good  a  place  as  this  is ;  and  before  as 
good  as  you  are,  Captain  Blade. 

Bla.  First  leave  your  raging.  Sir:  for  though  you  should 
roar  like  Tamerlin  at  the  Bull,  'twould  do  no  good  with  me. 

Tru.  I  Tamtrtin?  I  scorn  him,  as  much  as  you  do,  for 
your  ears.  I'll  have  an  aftion  of  slander  against  you,  Captain ; 
you  shall  not  miscal  me  at  your  pleasure :  remember  you  call'd 
me  yethro  once  before. 

pKid.  O  the  Father !  little  did  I  think,  I  wuss,  to  see  you 
ever  with  these  eyes  again. 

Bla.  Pray,  Sir,  hear  me  ;  The  wrong  I  did  you,  when  you 
were  last  here,  came  from  distraction  onely,  and  not  my  will ; 

N  2  \^$ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

and  therefore  deserves  pardon.  The  business,  if  you  please,  HI 
relate  truly  to  you ;  and  by  what  special  providence  I  escap'd 
the  danger.  they  whisper. 

Tru.  Well,  Sir,  I'm  not  angry ;  but  I'll  not  be  call'd  Tam/r/fn 
by  any  man. 

B/a,  Upon  my  faith.  Sir,  it  was  an  Antidote;  I  vomited  up 
more  then  any  whale  could  have  done ;  things  of  more  coloun 
then  twenty  Rhetoricians  were  ever  able  to  invent. 

Tru.     I  shall  teach  my  son — 

Bla.  No,  good  Sir,  I  forgive  him  with  all  my  heart:  but 
for  my  Necce — You  remember,  Sir,  the  Will  my  brother  left; 
you  were  witness  to  it.  For  this  her  disobedience,  the  means 
are  fain  to  me.  Now  if  you  please  to  marry  M.  Richard  to  my 
daughter,  Lucia* s  portion  shall  all  be  hers. 

Tru,  Thank  you  good  Captain  Blade  \  I  thank  you  for 
your  love  heartily :  pray  send  for  'um ;  he  shall  do't  presently. 
I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  love,  good  Captain :  he  shall  do  t, 
he  shall  do't.  Calls  his  servant^ 

and  sends  fir  *um. 
(What  good  luck  was  this,  that  I  spoke  not  to  the  widow  for 
her  daughter!)  How  do  you,  widow?  you're  melancholy  me- 
thinks  ;  you're  melancholy  i'faith,  that  you  are. 

fVid.  Well,  I  praise  God,  Sir,  in  better  health  then  I  deserve, 
vile  wretch.     I'm  glad  to  see  our  neighbour  so  recovered. 

Tru,  I,  good  man,  he  has  had  a  dangerous  time  of  it,  that 
he  has,  a  very  dangerous  time :  his  neece  is  a  naughty  wench, 
a  scurvie  girl,  to  repay  him  thus  for  all  his  care  and  trouble:  he 
has  been  a  father  to  her.  Widow,  that  he  has ;  to  my  knowledge 
he  has :  Her  father  was  an  honest  man,  I'm  sure  on't. 

IVid,  Was  he  ?  I,  as  ever  trod  upon  Gods  ground,  peace  be 
with  him ;  I,  and  as  loving  a  neighbour  too — 

Tru,  We  have  drunk  our  half  pintes  of  Muscadel  together 
many  a  morning,  that  we  have. 

frid.  My  husband  too  was  all  in  all  with  him.  Hei-ho! 
I  shall  never  forget  how  merry  we  were  when  we  went  with 
him  to  Mortlake  in  the  Easter-holy-days:  and  we  carried  a 
shoulder  of  Mutton  with  us,  and  a  fat  Pig,  and  he  carried  his 
bottle  of  wine  down  with  him :  I  warrant  you  [he]  lov'd  a  cup 
of  wine  as  well  as  his  brother ;  in  a  fair  sort,  I  mean. 

Tru,     Ah  widow!  those  days  are  gone:  we  shall  neveriee 

J96 


THE  GUARDIAN 

those  days  again.  I  was  a  merry  grig  too  then,  and  would  ha' 
danc'd  and  cut  capers:  ha — who  but  I  ?  I  was  as  merry  as  the 
maids. 

Wid.  My  daughter  Tabytha  was  just  four  yeer  old  then, 
come  Z^ma^tide. 

Dog.  Captain,  I  thought  thou  hadst  been  at  Erebus  by  this 
time :  but  'tis  no  matter ;  *tis  but  an  Epitaph  lost :  hang*t,  'twas 
made  ex  temporey  and  so  let  it  pass. 

Bla.     Hadst  thou  made  one  i'&ith  ? 

Dog.    Yes,  by  this  light. 

Bk.  Fm  glad  I  did  not  die  then.  O  here  they  come.  She's 
a  good  handsome  wench ;  'tis  pity  to  cozen  her.  But  who  can 
hdp  it  ?    Every  one  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all. 

Aft.   3.     Scaen.   7. 

Bladey  ff^doWj  Truman  pater,  Dogrelj  Truman  filius,  Lucia. 

Bla.  Welcome,  kinde  Neece ;  you  see  I  live  still :  there 
were  Antidotes  as  well  as  Poisons. 

Wid.  He  has  been  a  loving  Uncle  to  you,  Mistress  Lucia : 
he  might  have  deserv'd  better  at  your  hands :  you  might  had 
Master  Truman^  I  warrant  you,  had  you  but  held  up  your 
finger  to  him :  he  would  not  ha'  seen  you  perish,  Mistris  Lucia ; 
I  may  say  I  know  him  so  far.  Speak,  Mistris  Luciay  speak  for 
your  self,  good  chuck  ;  your  Uncle  will  forgive  you :  we'll  all 
speak  for  you :  He  shsJl  forgive  you,  that  he  shsJl :  he  knows 
we  have  aul  our  &ults. 

Dog.  I  understand  the  language  of  her  silence  ;  it's  strong 
and  good.  You  bound  your  son,  Sir,  to  an  oath  never  to  see 
nor  hear  her  without  your  commission:  'tis  that  troubles  her 
conscience;  she  has  a  tender  one. 

Tru.  p.  I  bound  'um  ?  Well,  I  absolve  'um  then  ;  what's 
that  to  you,  Sir  ?  I'll  binde  'um  again,  if 't  be  my  pleasure  so : 
if  not,  a  fig  for  you ;  that's  all  I  care.  I  love  to  speak  my 
minde ;  you  must  pardon  me ;  I  ha'  spoke  to  as  good  as  you  i' 
my  days. 

Dog.  D'ye  speak  thus  always  ?  I'll  ha'  you  in  a  Play  if 
you  da 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Tru.  p.  I'm  dad  you  are  so  religious,  Sir ;  did  I  bind  vou 
too  to  silence  ?  Go  too,  Sir ;  I  told  you  what  your  mav-bees 
would  bring  you  to,  you'll  always  be  wiser  then  your  iather: 
Nay,  you  may  speak,  and  your  Minion  too,  if  sne  pleases. 

Lucicy  pulk  off  her  vaiL 

Luc.     Does  any  man  here  accuse  me  of  any  thing  i 

Bla.     We,  and  your  conscience  do. 

Luc,     My  Conscience  ?    'tis  as  pure  as  Sythian  Christal, 
From  any  spot;   I  can  see  through't  at  pleasure. 
Whatever  crime  you  mean,  (for  yet  I  know  not) 
Would  it  were  written  in  my  face. 

Bla.  Thou'dst  be  blacker  then  a  Moor  if  'twere.  Did  not 
you  consent  with  that  damn'd  Physitian  to  eive  me  poyson  ? 

Luc.     There  was  none  given  you,  I  call  God  to  witness: 
If  such  a  thought  had  slipt  into  my  dream, 
The  horror  would  have  wak'd  me,  and  I  fear'd 
Ever  to  sleep  again.     No ;   what  we  did.  Sir, 
Was  but  to  fright  you  with  a  painted  danger; 
That  the  just  terror  of  your  own  destrudtion 
Might  call  to  your  remembrance  my  dead  &ther: 
For  sure,  Sir,  you  forgot  him  when  you  thought 
To  match  his  onely  child  with  one  of  these 
Fellowes  that  live  extempore ;   whose  fortunes 
Are  patch'd  up  like  their  wit  by  several  patrons. 
Should  I  have  married  thus,  (but  I  would  sooner 
Endure  the  shameful  end  which  they  deserve) 
Your  conscious  Ghost  would  start  to  meet  my  fathers, 
And  look  more  pale  then  death  it  self  hath  made  it. 

Dog,  Let  her  alone,  she'll  call  names  and  fling  stones  about 
anon. 

JVid,  Alas  poor  soul !  you  may  see  she's  not  her  own 
woman. 

Tru.  p.  What  a  poor  excuse  she  made !  a  very  idle  simple 
excuse;    have  you  never  a  better  for  us? 

Tru,  f.     No,  she  says  true. 

Tru,  p.  You  wo'nt  bite  off  my  nose?  will  ye.  Sir?  pray 
do  not  bite  off  my  nose,  I  pray.  Sir,  do  not  ? 


igS 


THE  GUARDIAN 


Aft.   3.     Scaen.  8. 

Bladiy  JVidoWy  Truman  pater,  DogreL 
Truman  filius^  Lucia^  Puny. 

Pun.  What  a  bevy  o*  men's  here !  ha !  My  little  Load- 
stone, art  thou  here,  my  little  Diamond  ?  I'll  speak  to  your 
Uncle  now;   we'll  have  a  Parson  cry  I  Nicholas  presently. 

Luc.     You'r  rude,  Sir :  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Pun.  I,  so  you  said  i'the  garden,  when  I  began  to  gather, 
you  know  what  fruit :  Come  put  on  your  vail,  you'll  blush  else ; 
and  look  like  the  picture  of  a  red-rose  i'the  hangings.  Captain, 
Sahij  'tis  done. 

Bla.     Done!    What? 

Pun.     I  have  her,  i'&ith. 

Bla.     God  give  you  joy.  Sir. 

Pun.     Nay,  she's  my  own. 

Bla.     I  am  very  glad  oft. 

Pun.  I  scal'd  the  walls,  entered  the  Town,  and  left  a  garison 
there,  I  hope. 

Bla.     I  congratulate  your  Viftory,  Mr.  Puny. 

Pun.  You  shall  goe  to  my  wedding,  with  me  and  this  &ir 
Chorus.  I'm  as  nimble  as  a  Lybian  Rabbit :  Come,  you  must 
go,  though  you  be  as  lame  as  a  criple,  that  begs  at  Westminster, 
or  a  Crow  in  a  gutter  without  her  right  leg.  What  d'ye  wonder 
at  ?    I  tell  you,  she's  my  Penelope  now. 

Bla.     May  I  be  so  bold.  Sir,  as  to  ask,  who  'tis  you  mean  ? 

Pun.  'Slid,  canst  thou  not  see  my  meaning  ?  are  your  brains 
in  a  litter  ?  I'm  contracted  to  your  Neece,  and  have  got  upon 
her — Nay,  never  blush,  we're  as  good  as  married,  my  dear  Agat. 

Bla.     Have  you  then  lien  with  her  ? 

Truman  fil.  Ha !  No  figures  nor  similitudes,  good  Mr. 
Puny  I  be  as  open  and  naked  with  me,  as  you  were  with  her. 

Pun.  As  plain  as  a  Scholars  mourning-cloak.  I  ha'  don't 
i'iaith,  but  d'ye  see  ?  We  broke  this  gold  between  us  first, 
and  will  be  married  to  day.  Who^s  that  ?  Truman^  ha,  ha ; 
he  looks  like  the  Globe  of  the  World,  now:  look  how  he 
scratcheth  his  poul. 

199 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Bla.    God  give  you  joy,  Sir :  but  she  has  not  a  farthing  portion. 

Pun.     How,  Captain  ? 

Bla.  Not  so  much  as  will  buy  ribbands :  all's  mine  own : 
a  lawful  prize,  i'&ith. 

Tru.  fil.     Oh  monster  of  her  sex ! 

Luc.  Wilt  thou,  vile  man — I  cannot  speak  to  him — ^Witness 
all  these —  Weeps. 

Bla.  So  'tis  all  forfeited  to  me.  Will  you  try  how  your 
sons  affection  stands  towards  Aureliaf 

Tru.  p.  Come,  Dick^  the  Captain  has  forgiven  you :  never 
think  of  Lucia ;  she's  not  worth  your  thinking  on ;  a  scurvie 
girl :  ne'er  think  o'her ;  thou  shalt  marry  &ir  AureUa  :  there's 
a  wench,  a  wench  worth  gold  i'faith. 

Tru.  f.     I  can't  marry. 

Tru.  p.     What  can't  you  do,  Sir? 

Tru.  f.     I  can't  marry. 

Tru.  p.  Do  you  know  who  'tis  you  speak  to.  Sir?  you 
do'n't  sure:  Who  am  I,  pray?  you  can't,  when  I  bid  you. 
Surely  you  know  not  who  'tis  you  speak  to :  you  shall  do't,  or 
I'll  know  why  you  shall  not. 

Tru.  f.     I  wo'n't  marry. 

Tru.  p.  Get  you  out  o'  my  sight :  come  within  my  doors 
no  more ;   not  within  my  doors,  Sir. 

B/a.     Take  heed,  M.   Trumariy  what  you  do. 

Tru,  f.     I  wo'n't  marry. 

Luc.     Pray  hear  me  all — 

Bla,  Come,  M.  Truman^  let's  talk  of  these  things  within: 
come,  Gentlemen. 

Wid.  Hei-ho  !  I'll  ne'er  trust  a  wart  o'  the  right  cheek  and 
a  twinkling  eye  again  whilst  I  breathe,  for  Mistress  Lucia*s  sake. 
A  man  would  think,  that  sees  her,  that  butter  would  not  ha' 
melted  in  her  mouth.  Take  heed,  Tabytha ;  the  still  Sow  eats 
up  all  the  draiF,  I  see. 

Tru.  p.  I'll  never  acknowledge  him  for  my  son  again :  I  tell 
you.  Captain,  he's  always  thus ;  he's  always  with  his  may-be's 
and  his  wo'nots :  I  can't  abide  these  wo'nots,  not  abide  'um. 

Pun.  I'll  follow  him  about  the  portion ;  he  sha'  not  think 
to  make  an  Asdrubal  of  me. 

Dog.     Now  my  plot  works. 

Exeunt  omnes  prater  Tru.  fiL  feT  Lucia. 

200 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Aft.  3.     Scsen.  9. 

Truman  fil.  Lucia  weeping, 

Tru.     How  precious  were  those  tears,  if  they  were  true  ones ! 
How  much  more  worth  then  all  the  Oceans  Jewels ! 
But  they  are  onely  false  and  empty  bubbles; 
Fair  to  the  sight,  but  hollow  as  her  heart: 
There's  nothing,  nothing  in  'um :    he  that  weighs  'um. 
Shall  finde  'um  lighter  then  a  mad  mans  dreams, 
Or  womens  resolutions. 

Luc.     I  never  did  that  fellow  any  wrong. 
Why  should  he  pay  so  dearly  for  the  loss 
Of  my  poor  honour,  as  to  sell  his  soul  for't  ? 

7r».     O  she  confesses,  now,  sh'has  lost  her  honour. 

Luc.     They  triumph  in  the  ruine  of  us  women. 
And  wooe  our  beauties  onely,  or  our  dowries ; 
Which  when  they  miss  of,  they  resolve  to  take 
Revenge  of  their  un worthiness  on  us ; 
Stealing  away  all  that  makes  rich  our  dowry, 
And  beauty  &ir,  our  Name.     But  'tis  no  matter. 
Since  heaven  and  Truman  know  my  chastity. 
Ha !    he's  here  still !     How  do  you.  Sir  ? 

Tru.    Well,  well. 

Luc.     You  look  ill. 

Tru.     No,  no,  no. 

Luc.     Indeed  you  do :    [you]  are  not  well,  I'm  sure. 

Tru.     I  am.    Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Luc.     How,  Sir  I     You  do  not  know  me,  sure. 

Tru.     I  would  I  never  had. 

Luc.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Tru.     To  see  thy  fece  no  more. 

Luc.     You  said  you  could  not  live  without  the  sight  on't. 

Tru.     It  was  a  good  one  then. 

Luc.     Has  one  day  spoil'd  it  ? 

Tru.     O  yes,  more  then  an  hundred  yeers  of  time. 
Made  as  much  more  by  a  continual  sorrow. 
Could  e'er  ha'  done. 

Luc.     I  do  not  think  my  glass  will  say  so. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 


As  hlsc  as  you,  perhaps;   but  'tis  not  half 

So  brittle.    Dares  vour  husband  trust  mc  alone 

With  you  so  long  r 

Lut.     My  hus^nd  i 

Tru.     I  cry  you  mercy; 
The  man  you  sin  withal.     You  scorn  to  use 
Pretences. 

Luc.     Yes,  I  do.  Sir: 
For  she  that  scorns  th*  offence,  needs  no  excuse 
Have  you  so  little  confidence  in  that 
Which  you  have  secm'd  to  praise  so  oft,  my  Vertues? 
Or  did  you  flatter  onely?    Sure  you  did  not: 
For  I  remember  I  have  heard  you  swear 
You  spoke  your  thoughts.     Are  Oathes  but  complements? 
'Tis  done  unkindly,  very  unkindly,  Truman ; 
And  were  *t  not  your  self,  I  should  be  angry. 
Had  a  bright  Angel  come  to  me,  and  said 
That  you  were  false,  I  should  have  sworn  't  had  ly'd, 
And  thought  that  rather  false  then  you.     Nothing 
Could  ever  move  th'  opinion  of  thy  constancy 
But  thine  own  self;   and  thee  I  must  believe. 

Tru.     And  I'll  believe  my  self  in  what  I  saw, 
I  know  thou  canst  speak  prettily;    but  thy  words 
Are  not  what  Nature  meant  'um,  thy  mindes  picture. 
The  Bee  has  left  his  honey  in  thy  tongue, 
But  in  thy  heart  his  sting. 

Luc.     O  do  not  say  so: 
My  heart  is  honest  still,  unless  thou  spoildst  it 
When  it  receiv'd  thee  in,     'T  had  but  three  corners, 
And  thou  hadst  two,  at  least.     Would  thou  couldst  see 
How  little  room  I've  left  my  self  there  in  it. 

Tru.     Yes;    for 'tis  crouded  up  with  many  guests; 
So  many  guests,  that  they  excluded  me: 
And  now  I  freeze  without ;   but  never  more. 
Never  will  enter:   'twas  a  Palace  once. 
But  now  'tis  turn'd  a  Dungeon, 

Luc.     Will  you  leave  me  ? 
I  will  not  call  you  fickle  nor  unconstant; 
But  sure  you  arc  [to]  blame:   you  will  not  find 
202 


THE  GUARDIAN 

A  woman  that  will  love  you  half  so  well. 

Tru.     I  do  not  mean  to  try. 

Liu.     Yes,  prithee  do. 
But  when  y'have  taUc'd,  and  lov'd,  and  vow'd,  and  sworn 
A  little  while,  take  heed  of  using  her 
As  you  do  me.     No,  may  your  love  to  her 
Be  such  as  mine  to  you;   it  can't  be  better, 
What  e'er  you  think;   I'm  sure  it  cannot,  7'ninuin. 
May  she  be  worthier  of  your  bed  then  1, 
And  bring  forth  many  little  selves  to  you: 
And  when  the  happie  course  of  divers  yeei^ 
Makes  you  seem  old  to  all  besides  your  wife. 
May  you  in  the  lair  glass  of  your  blest  issue, 
Sec  your  own  youth  again.     But  I  would  have  'um 
True  in  their  loves,  and  kill  no  innocent  maids. 
For  me  it  is  no  matter:   when  I'm  dead, 
My  busic  soul  shall  flutter  still  about  you ; 
'Twill  not  be  else  in  heaven:   it  shall  watch 
Over  your  sleeps,  and  drive  away  all  dreams 
That  flie  not  with  a  soft  and  downy  wing. 
If  any  dangers  threaten,  it  shall  bccken, 
And  call  your  spirit  away  till  they  be  past; 
And  be  more  diligent  then  your  Guardian- Angel. 
Onely  sometimes,  when  your  best  leasure  serves, 
(For  I'd  not  trouble  you  more  dead  then  living) 
Bestow  one  thought  on  Lwia,  and  then  sigh. 
And  (if  you  will)  drop  down  a  tear  or  two. 
But  thats  a  task  1*11  not  enjoyn  you  to: 
And  if  you  do't,  spend  not  too  many  on  mcj 
One  will  suffice:    then  onely  say.  That  maid 
Deserv'd  more  of  me.     And  again  t'your  business. 
For  my  wrongd  vertue  and  forsaken  truth, 
I  ask  no  more.     So,  dear  False-maa,  iarewel.  Exit. 

7ru.     Farewel  i    That  word  has  charms  and  poisons  in't ; 
It  makes  my  frighted  soul  start  back  and  tremble. 
Tis  but  an  aery  word.     D'ye  hear  me,  Lucia? 

Lk.  (within)     Who  calls? 

7V«.     Farewel,  Lutia,  brewel ;   that's  all :   farewel. 
Repent,  and  meet  me  in  heav'n — 
Why  did  nsh  Nature  quarrel  with  her  self. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

In  making  one  so  excellently  bad? 

She  is  more  &ir  then  May*%  new  painted  blossoms, 

But  &lser  then  the  smiles  of  Pithless  April: 

And  this  I  know,  and  yet  me  thinks  I  love  her. 

O  she  has  killM  my  Reason :   I  have  lost 

That  and  my  self  for  ever.  Exiu 

Finis  A£ius  tertii. 


ASk,  4.     Scaen.   i. 

Lucia  sola. 

Every  thing  now  has  left  me ;   tears  themselves. 
The  riches  of  my  very  grief,  forsake  me : 
Sorrow,  me  thinks,  shews  nakedly  without  'um. 
My  sighs  are  spent  too;   and  my  wearied  lungs 
Deny  me  fresh  supplies:    and  I  appear 
Like  some  dull  melancholy  April-even^ 
When  after  many  a  showre  the  heav'ns  still  lowre, 
As  if  they  threatned  more;    and  the  fled  Sun 
Leaves  nothing  but  a  doubtful  blush  behinde  him. 
And  I  could  wish  my  eternal  night  were  coming, 
Did  I  but  know  who  'tis  that  makes  me  wish  it: 
Else,  when  my  soul  is  ready  for  her  flight, 
And  knows  not  who  it  is  she  must  forgive, 
A  thousand  light  suspicions  will  call 
Her  charity  several  ways;   and  I  may  chance 
To  doubt  thee,  Truman,     But  thou  art  abus'd  : 
I  know  not  why;   but  sure  thou  couldst  not  do  it* 
I  fear  thee,  cousin.    When  we  were  both  girls. 
Thou  wouldst  accuse  me  falsely  to  my  Mistress, 
And  laugh  to  see  my  tears.     I  fear  thee,  cousin  ; 
But  ril  not  judge  too  rashly:    for  I  would  not 
Have  any  innocent  wrong*d  as  I  have  been. 
But  I'm  resolv'd  to  try  her.     She's  now  seeking 
(Hoping  that  all  my  fortunes  now  are  hers) 
For  a  new  maid  t'attend  her.     That  maid  I'll  be* 

204 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Cloathes  I  have  got  already;   and  mv  hce      ^ 
Grief  has  disguis'd :   that  and  my  voice  some  art 
Will  quickly  alter.     I  have  left  a  Note 
Upon  my  chamber-window,  which  will  keep  'um 
From  all  suspicion  of  my  staying  here. 

Aft.  4.     Scaen.   2. 

Cutter^  Dogrelj  Puny^  Lucia, 

Cut.  Hei !  the  Sisters  are  ravisht,  and  we  have  holy  kisses 
enough.  I  shall  be  as  great  among  *um  as — ^Who*s  there  ? 
What,  your  Spouse,  Puny? 

Dog,     She  looks  like  Niohe  on  the  mountains  top. 

Cut.  That  Niobij  Dogrely  you  have  us*d  worse  then  Phcebus 
did.  Not  a  dog  looks  melancholy,  but  he's  compared  to  Niobe. 
He  beat  a  villanous  Tapster  t'other  day,  to  make  him  look  like 
Niobe. 

Pun.     Why  'faith  that's  pretty  odde,  like  one  o'  mine. 

Lmc.  O,  Sir,  had  you  the  vertuous  impudence  to  slander  a 
poor  maid  thus? 

Pun.  Poor  enough  now  indeed.  I  will  not  marry  thee : 
thy  portion  was  a  condition  of  the  Contraft.  I'll  sooner  marry 
a  woman  that  sells  Orenges  with  a  face  like  Belinsgate. 

Luc.     I  scorn  thee — I  contracted  to  thee  ? 

Pun.     Wert  not  ?     Answer. 

Luc.     No,  by  heaven. 

Pun.  Bear  witness,  Gentlemen ;  these  words  are  Carduus 
benediSius  to  me. 

Cut.  And  what  will  you  do  now,  &ir  Gammer  Lucia^  you 
that  contemn'd  the  Colonel  ?     Will  you  knit  for  your  living  ? 

Dog.     Or  else  weed  gardens  for  six  pence  a  day  and  bread. 

Luc.     This  is  imheard-of  rudeness. 

Pun.  Nay  let  me  ha'  mine  too ;  I  ha'  got  a  pat  one  for  her. 
Or  else  turn  Apple- woman,  live  in  a  stall,  and  sell  pippins  for 
eight  a  peny. 

Dog.     Or  hither  in  triumph  'twixt  two  panniers  ride, 
And  sell  the  bouls  of  wheat  and  butter  in  Cheapside. 
The  last  is  a  little  too  long:    but  I  imitate  Spencer. 

205 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut.  What  think  ye,  Gentlemen?  she'll  make  a  pretty 
Landress. 

Pun,  A  Landress?  hang  her,  she  looks  like  a  foul  hand- 
kercher. 

Luc.     Pray  let  me  go  ;  I  ha'  business  requires  me. 

Cut.  What  ?  you're  to  meet  some  Gentlemen  ?  How  is*t  ? 
twelve  pence  a  time,  I  warrant,  in  these  cloathes. 

Dog.  Where  do  you  set  up  ?  Nay,  we  are  true  strikers. 
What,  is't  in  Covent-gardcn  ? 

Cut.    Or  do  you  renew  the  decay'd  credit  of  Turnbal-strect  ? 

Pun.     Or  honour  the  Mill-bank  at  Westminster. 

Dog,     Or  flee  to  Wapping,  and  engross  the  Sailors. 

Cut.     Or  Moor-fields,  and  sell  cakes. 

Luc,     Are  all  barbarous  here  ? 

Dog.     Nay  tell's  ;  we  shall  be  customers. 

Pun,  Enough,  enough  ;  give  her  a  clap  o'  the  breech^  and 
let  her  go. 

Cut.  Well,  &re  thee  well,  girl ;  we  shall  finde  you  at  the 
Play-house  i*  the  six-pcny-room  sometimes. 

Dog,  And  d'ye  hear,  Lucioy  Keep  your  self  wholesome: 
your  tub's  a  terrible  thing. 

Luc,     Unworthy  villains — But  I'm  born  to  wrongs, 
And  must  endure  um.  Exit. 

Omn,     Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Cut,  A  pretty  Scene  i'  faith.  Now  for  the  Captain  ;  he'll 
entertain  us  like  forraign  Princes:  we'll  drink  this  half-yeer 
with  him,  before  wc  eat  or  sleep. 

Pun,  I'll  drink  like  Gog-Magog  himself,  or  the  Spanish 
Tinker  on  a  holy-day. 

Dog,     There  will  I  whet  my  Lyrick  Muse 
With  Falern  wine  as  I  do  use. 
Captain  Blade  cannot  refuse 
To  entertain  us ;    he  cannot  chuse. 
When  we  bring  him  such  good  news, 
As  that  his  neece  is  gone  to  the  stews. 

Cut.  Leave  your  verses,  Dognl,  I  hate  your  verses,  Degnly 
till  I  be  drunk.     'Tis  a  glorious  Captain. 

Dog.  As  free  as  Free-town  in  Germany.  Here  comes 
yeronymo, 

206 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Aft.  4.     Scaen.   3. 

Cutter^  Punyj  Dogrelj  Blade. 

Bla.  The  story  says  my  ncece  is  run  away.  The  story  is 
not  bad.  Now  will  I  get  the  widow,  turn  off  my  old  rascally 
companions,  and  live  like  an  Emperour. 

Cut.  He  says  he  will  live  like  an  Emperour ;  ha,  ha,  ha, 
brave  Captain. 

Pun.     Invincible  Captain  Priam. 

Omn,     Hei  brave  Captain  ! 

Bla.  What  do  you  mean,  Gentlemen  ?  Are  ye  broke  loose 
from  Bedlam  ?  Ha'  you  no  other  place  to  play  your  tricks  in, 
but  at  my  door  ?  If  you  come  here  as  Mummers,  much  may 
be  done ;  haply  you  may  have  twelve-pence :  or  else  depart ; 
depart,  if  you  be  wise. 

Omn.     Why  how  now.  Captain  ! 

Bla.  If  you  be  not  gone  immediately,  I'll  ha'  my  men 
switch  you  ^rther  off — Here  are  saucy  knaves  indeed  with  all 
my  heart —  Offers  to  go  out. 

Cut.     By  this  light  the  Captain's  drunk  without  us. 

Pun.  Prethee,  Captain,  thou  art  as  humorous  as  a  bell- 
rope.     Dost  thou  know  me,  man  ?     I'm  M.  Puny. 

Blade.  Y'are  a  fool,  an  addle  egge :  there's  nothing  else  but 
cobwebs  i'  your  head  :  The  height  of  all  thy  knowledge  is  to 
find  out  the  quarter  day  against  thy  rents  come  in,  and  thou 
couldst  not  finde  out  that,  if 'twere  not  marke'd  i'  the  Almanack 
with  red  letters.  Yet  you  forsooth,  because  you  see  some 
Gentlemen  and  Poets  of  late,  a  little  extravagant  sometimes  in 
their  similitudes  ;  because  they  make  a  pretty  kinde  of  sound  to 
those  that  mark  'um  not ;  make  that  your  way  of  wit,  and 
never  speak  without  comparisons.  But  never  were  comparisons 
so  odious  as  thine  are.  And  these  two  Rabbit-suckers,  for  a 
quart  of  wine  extol  thee,  and  cry  good  when  thou  speakest  so. 

Pun.  The  Captains  raging  mad  like  a  Baker  when  his  oven 
is  over  heated. 

Bla.     And  that  was  one  of  um — 

Cut.  Come  leave  your  humors,  hang  you,  confound  you, 
pox  take  you.  Captain,  we  come  to  drink  here. 

207 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Bla.  Mine's  no  blind  Ale-house,  where  you  may  roar  and 
swagger  with  half  a  pipe  of  Tobacco  in  your  mouth. 

Cut.     Do  you  know  me,  Captain  ? 

Bla,  I  would  I  never  had.  Thou  art  one  that  sayest  thou 
hast  seen  the  wars,  but  thou  liest  basely  ;  for  if  thou  ever  wast 
in  a  battle,  [I'm]  sure  tho[u]  winkest  there.  Thou  art  one  that 
liv'st  like  a  Raven  by  providence  and  rapine :  one  that  if  thou 
shouldst  chance  to  go  to  bed  sober,  thou  wouldst  put  it  down  in 
thv  Almanack  for  an  unluckv  day ;  sleep  is  not  death's  image 
with  thee,  unless  thou  beest  deadndrunk. 

Dog.     He  dares  not  abuse  me  thus. 

Cut,     Is't  even  so.  Captain  ?     Has  your  money  exalted  you  ? 

Bla.  No,  it  has  humbled  me,  and  made  me  know  my  self 
and  you,  whom  I  shall  study  to  forget  hereafter. 

Dog.     Come,  Captain,  shall  you  and  I  drink  hand  to  hand  ? 

Bla.     Oh,  you're  his  Lansprizado,  Sirrah,  Trundle. 

Dog.     Let  not  thy  wrath  swell  like  the  Adrian  Sea. 

Bla.  Thou  that  troublcst  thy  self  to  be  a  fool ;  I  will  so 
beat  thee.  Trundle,  that  thou  shalt  hobble  like  one  of  thy  own 
Rhyms.  Therefore,  if  ever  thou  shewest  that  Poetical  face  of 
thine  within  my  doors  again.  He  use  thee  worse  then  thou  didst 
me,  when  thou  mad'st  an  Ode  in  commendation  of  me. 

Dog,     Then  break  thine  oaten  reed — 

Bla.  Fare  ye  well  Gentlemen.  I  shall  see  thee  Cutter  a 
brave  Tapster  shortly  ;  it  must  be  so  i'faith,  Cutter ;  thou  must 
like  Bardolph  i'the  play,  the  spiggot  weild.  Dogrel  shall  make 
and  sell  smal  Pamphlets  i'the  play-house,  or  else  Tobacco,  or 
else  snuiFe  Candles.  As  for  Punyy  his  means  will  serve  him  to 
be  cheated  of  these  five  or  six  yeers. 

Cut.     'Tis  very  well  the  times  are  so  alter'd. 

Bla.  Ye  cannot  want  a  living  Gentlemen,  as  long  as  there 
are  Whores,  Bowling-allies,  or  Ordinaries ;  especially  such  able 
men  as  you  are.  There  will  be  wars  too  shortly ;  never  quake, 
Cutter ;  here's  Dogrel^  when  his  want  has  spun  him  out  a  little 
thinner,  will  serve  you  for  a  pike. 

Cut,     'Tis  very  well :  pray  God  your  mirth  last.  Captain. 

Bla,  When  you're  grown  old,  and  your  fingers  then  only 
nimble  with  the  palsie,  I'll  provide  an  Hospital  for  you — Seda 
ubl  fata  quietas — Fare  ye  well.  Gallants ;  and  pray  be  merry : 
Fare  ye  well  heartily.  Exit. 

208 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Cut.  Poverty,  the  pox,  an  ill  wife,  and  the  Devil  go  with 
thee,  Captain. 

Pun.  I  vexed  him,  when  I  put  that  jest  upon  him,  like  a 
Baker  when  his  oven's  overheated. 

Dog.  If  I  don't  compose  a  Satyre  shall  make  him  hang  him- 
self, may  I  never  write  verse  more. 

Cut.  I  would  beat  him  like  a  Buck,  but  I  shall  be  bound  to 
the  peace  for't,  and  be  afironted  afterward  by  every  one. 

D§g.  No,  no,  no — let  me  see — Besides  my  Satyre  I  have 
another  way — let  me  see — His  brother  trafEckt  at  Guiny. 

Cut.     Yes,  but  the  Merchants  there  report  him  dead. 

Dog.     The  more  knaves  they  :  he  lives,  and  I  am  he. 

Cut.     How  ?     How,  Dogrelj  thou  the  Merchant  man  ? 

Dog.     By  this  light,  I  either  am,  or  will  be. 

Cut.  How,  Dogrel !  Though  thou  be  as  thin  and  penetrable 
as  a  spirit,  yet  thou  canst  not  aissume  dead  bodies. 

Pun.  Prithee,  Dogrelj  hold  thy  peace;  thou  talkest  like 
a  hogs  face. 

Dog.  Deride  not.  Puny :  if  I  be  not  more  like  then  any  of 
your  similitudes,  I'll  be  hang'd  for't. 

Cut.  Thy  face,  indeed,  will  do  exceeding  well  to  represent 
one  risen  from  the  grave. 

Dog.  By  long  conversation  with  the  Captain,  I  know  all  the 
passages  between  him  and  his  brother ;  know  what  his  humour, 
what  his  state  and  fortunes  were,  better  then  himself  did  when 
he  lived. 

Cut.  ly  but  thoult  ne'er  a£l  him.  Why,  man,  he  was  a 
thing  more  strange  then  any  monster  in  Africk  where  he  travell'd. 

Pun.     What  was  he,  prithee  ? 

Dog.  I  knew  him  well  enough ;  he  had  lost  his  memory, 
and  therefore  either  writ  down  every  thine,  and  took  his  busi- 
ness with  him  in  a  scroll,  or  else  trusted  it  to  his  man  Johny 
whom  he  carried  with  him. 

Cut.  O  I,  that  yobn  and  he  went  perpetually  together,  like 
the  blinde  man  and  his  dog. 

Pun.  Or  a  Tinker  and  his  trull.  But  d've  hear,  gallants, 
let  me  do  apple-^^^f ;  never  was  such  a  John  as  I'll  be,  not 
yobn  a  Gaunt  himself,  nor  John  a  Noak. 

Cut.  But  Dogrely  how  wilt  thou  be  made  like  that  Cinqui- 
fuaterf 

CIL  o  209 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

D§g.  Why  we  Poets  can  do  any  thing.  First  you  may 
remember  (unless  you  be  like  him)  'tis  seven  yeers  since 
he  went  from  hence ;  and  time,  you  know,  will  alter  men. 
I  made  an  Ode  upon  that  subject  once:  Timiy  that  d^st  eaty 
and  makst  no  Lent — 

Cut,     Pox  take  your  Ode ;  go  on  i'  your  business,  D§greL 

Dog,  Then  I  and  my  man  John  (as  simply  as  he  stands 
here)  will  swarthy  over  our  &ces  as  if  the  Coimtrey  had  made 
us  so :  for  if  you  remember  my  verses,  In  Africk  they  art  Hack 
as  coals — 

Cut,    The  devil's  i'  thy  verses.     Prithee  on. 

Dog,  Besides,  we'll  be  attir'd  in  some  strange  habit  of  those 
Countries:  I  know  not  how;  but  you  shall  see  't  in  Spuds 
Maps. 

Cut,  Why  now  I  like  thee,  my  little  Ovid\  go  about  thy 
Metamorphosis.  I'm  for  Tabytha ;  she's  taken,  Dogrtl^  melted 
like  virgins  wax.  I'll  to  her  presently,  and  tell  her  that  the 
vision  appeared  to  me  last,  and  warn'd  me  to  carry  her  to  S. 
Ant* tins ;  there  will  I  have  a  Priest. 

Dog,     A  Priest,  Cutter  ? 

Cut,  A  Minister,  I  mean;  a  holy,  godly,  zealous  Minister: 
and  she — You  conceive  me,  Dogrel — 

Dog,  Well,  let's  be  going  then.  Puny^  take  heed  o*  your 
wit  when  you  adt  John :  I  shall  beat  my  servant  John^  if  he  be 
witty. 

Pun,     That's  the  devil ;  I  shall  hardly  abstain. 

Cut,  And  Dogre/y  you  must  make  no  verses,  Dogrel:  let  that 
be  the  first  thing  your  memory  &ils  you  in. 

Pun,     Well,  I'll  follow  you  in  a  pissing-while. 

Dog,     Do  so,  good  John,  Exit  Dog.  Cut, 

Pun,  Now  will  I  turn  Johnj  as  round  as  a  Wedding-ring: 
and  if  that  plot  be  cut  on  by  the  nose — Ha?  Here  comes 
sententious  Bias  that  walks  gravely.  I'll  observe  my  young 
Laconian, 


210 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Aft.  4.     Scaen.   4. 

Puny^  Truman  filius. 

Tru.     She's  gone  for  ever.     Peace  be  with  thee,  Luciaj 
Where  ever  thou  art. 

Pun,     Now  he  begins  his  Epithalamium. 

Tru.     If  she  be  guilty, 
Forgive  her,  heav'n ;  she'll  repent,  Fm  sure : 
For  she  is  soft,  and  melting  as  the  dew. 
That  kisses  cv*ry  morn  the  trembling  roses ; 
And  howsoe'er  beauty  and  youth  misled  her. 
She  cannot  be,  I  know,  a  stubborn  sinner. 

Pun.     Did  ever  Basket-maker  talk  thus?    to  himself  too, 
like  a  Conjurer  in  a  garden  ? 

Tru.     Ha  I     This  is  he,  that  wicked  man. 
That  devil  which  betray'd  her. 

Pun.     O,  are  you  thereabouts  ?  Offers  t9  go  out. 

Tru.     Nay  stay, 
For  wert  thou  arm'd  with  thunder  and  my  anger, 
Yet  I  would  bring  thee  back.     Tell  me  what  charms, 
(For  I  will  rip  thy  heart  up  but  Til  know  it) 
What  witch-craft  didst  thou  use  t'entice  her  thus? 
Never  deny't.     For  hadst  thou  been  more  handsome 
Then  other  mens,  or  thine  own  flattery 
Could  ever  make  thee :    hast  thou  been  as  beautiftil, 
And  couldst  have  spoke  as  well  as  she  her  self. 
All  this  were  nothing;  she  would  look  upon  thee. 
But  lust  no  more  then  thine  own  Angel  does. 
No,  thou  didst  use  some  cursed  art  to  tempt  her. 
Some  Philter — 

Pun.     Not  I  by  all — what  d'ye  mean  pray.  Sir? 

Tru.     Why  then  you  ravisht  her,  by  Heav'n  you  ravisht  her : 
Alas,  she's  weak  and  tender,  very  tender. 
And  was  not  able  to  resist  that  strength 
Which  youth  and  ftirious  lust  did  arm  thee  with. 
'Twas  basely  done,  above  expression  basely. 
And  I  would  presently  revenge  it  fully. 
But  that  my  sword  would  take  from  the  laws  justice. 
And  ft-om  thy  shame. 

o  2  x\\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Pun.     I  ravish  her?     By  this  light  I  scorn't. 

Tru,     You  did  enjoy  her  body  ?     Did  you  not  ? 

Pun,     I  did  so. 

Tru,     You  did?     I  prithee  do  not  say  you  did  so; 
This  is  to  brag  of  the  vile  aft  th'ast  done: 
But  I  shall  spoil  your  pride  and  shameful  glory 
Which  your  base  sin  affords  you. 

Pun,     You   bid   me  tell  you  the  truth,  what  would  you 
ha'me  do  ? 

Tru,     Do?     I  would  have  thee  fix  thy  adulterous  eye 
Upon  the  ground,  which  thy  cursed  feet  dishonour; 
And  blush  more  red  then  is  the  sin  th'ast  a£ted. 
What  would  I  have  thee  do?     I'd  have  thee  weep, 
Shed  as  true  tears  as  she  does  for  thy  fault, 
And  sigh  away  thy  body  into  air. 

What  would  I  have  thee  do?     Td  have  thee  kill  thy  self. 
And  sacrifice  thy  life  to  her  wrongM  Soul. 
Canst  thou  refuse  to  do  all  this  for  her, 
For  whom  th'ast  damn'd  thy  self? 

Pun,     We  were  contracted  first  e'er  I  enjoyed  her. 

Tru,     Didst  thou  enjoy  her  then  ?     How  durst  thou  do  it  ? 
Why  she  was  mine,  I  tell  thee  she  was  mine; 
All  the  Seas  wealth  should  not  have  bought  her  from  mc^ 
While  she  remain'd  as  spotless  as  my  love: 
And  so  she  did  remain  till  thy  sin  stain'd  her. 
I  tell  thee  to  that  hour  she  was  more  innocent 
Then  thou,  fialse  man,  wert  in  thy  mothers  womb. 
Didst  thou  enjoy  her  ?     Either  fetch  back  that  word. 
Say,  nay  I'll  have  thee  swear  thou  didst  not  touch  her, 
Or  by  those  joyes  which  thou  hast  rob'd  me  of, 
I'll  kill  thee  strait. 

Pun,     'S[l]id  I  did  not  touch  her.     What  would  you  ha*  me 
say  ?  would  I  were  John  the  Merchants  man  now. 

Tru,     O  Heav'ns !     O  most  unheard  of  villany  1 
Th'  hast  done  a  crime  so  great,  that  there  is  hardly 
Mercy  enough  in  Heav'n  to  pardon  thee. 
Tell  me,  (for  now  I'll  argue  mildly  with  thee) 
Why  should  you  seek  t'  undo  a  harmless  maid  ? 
To  rob  her  of  her  friends,  her  life  perhaps, 
I'm  sure  her  fame,  which  is  much  dearer  to  her. 

212 


THE  GUARDIAN 

*Twas  an  inhuman  a£t;  an  a£l  so  barbarous, 
That  Nations  uncivilized  would  abhor  it: 
I  dare  say  boldly  she  n[c]v'r  injured  you; 
For  she  was  gentle  as  the  breath  of  Zephyrus: 
And  if  she  e*er  did  but  begin  a  thought 
Of  wronging  any  man,  she  would  have  wept 
Before  she  thought  it  out. 

Pun.  I  had  rather  be  a  pickl'd-Oister,  then  i'this  case  I 
am  in  now. 

Tim.     Is  Lucia  abus'd  ?  and  I  stand  here 
T'cxpostulate  with  words  her  injuries  ? 
Draw,  for  Til  talk  no  more  with  thee. 

Pun,  D*ye  hear,  Sir — by  Heaven  I  lay  with  her,  but  we 
were  contra^ed  first — will  you  be  pleas'd  to  hear  me  ? 

Tru,     No,  be  gone. 

Pun.  Most  willingly.  Fare  ye  well  heartily,  Sir;  I  wish 
you  a  good  night-cap.  Exit. 

Tru.     The  want  of  sleep  and  diet  has  distempered  me. 
If  I  stay  thus  I  shall  be  quite  distracted; 
Me  thinks  a  kinde  of  strangeness  seizes  me: 
And  yet  if  I  go  home  I  shall  be  forc'd 
To  marry  with  Aurelia.     Is  it  possible 
There  should  be  women  good,  if  Lucia  be  not  ? 
They  are  not  sure:  She  lookt  as  well  as  any, 
And  spoke  as  well  too. 

A(9;.  4.     Scaen.   5. 

Truman  pater,  Truman  filius.  Blade. 

Tru.  p.  I  tell  you.  Captain,  he's  a  stubborn  boy,  a  self-will'd 
hair-brain'd  boy :  he  has  his  know-nots,  and  his  wo'nots,  and 
his  may-be*s,  when  I  speak.  I  have  told  him  of  his  manner  a 
hundred  times ;  nay  I  may  say  a  thousand. 

Bla.  Pray  take  my  counsel  for  this  once:  though  I  be  a 
souldier,  yet  I  love  not  to  do  all  things  by  force.  Speak  fiiirly 
to  him. 

Tru.  p.  Speak  fiiirly  to  my  son  ?  V\\  see  him  buried.  Til 
see  his  eyes  out  first. 

213 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Bla,     I  mean,  desire  him. 

Tru.  p.  O,  that's  another  matter.  Well,  for  your  pcr- 
swasion,  I'll  do  it :  but  if  ever  I  speak  fair  to  him — 

Bla,  I  know  his  nature's  such,  that  kindness  will  sooner 
win  him — Look  you,  he's  here  i'faith,  as  melancholy  as  an  owl 
i'  the  day-time. 

Tru.  p.     O,  are  you  there,  Jacksauce — 

Bla.     Nay,  remember  what  I  told  you. 

Tru.  p.  Tis  true  indeed.  How  now,  son  Dick  ?  you*rc 
melancholy  still,  I  see. 

Tru.  f.  It  best  becomes  my  fortune,  Sir,  now  you  have  cast 
me  off. 

Tru.  p.  I  cast  thee  off?  marry  God  forbid,  Dick.  How 
dost  do,  Dick  ?  Thou  lookst  ill,  Dicky  in  troth  thou  dost :  I 
must  have  thee  merry. 

Bla.  I  see  all  kindness  is  against  this  dotards  nature,  he  does 
so  over-adl  it. 

Tru.  p.  Wilt  thou  have  a  Physitian,  Dick  ?  Thou  art  my 
onely  son,  Dick^  and  I  must  have  a  care  of  thee :  thou  should^ 
ride  abroad  sometimes,  Dick^  and  be  merry.  We'll  ha'  a  wife 
too  for  thee,  Dicky  a  good  wife,  ha — 

Tru.  fil.     I  thank  you,  Sir ;  but  I  know  not — 

Tru.  p.  I,  now  he's  at  his  know-nots.  I  will  make  you 
leave  those  know-nots,  boy — 

Bla.     Remember,  M.  Trumartj  what  I  told  you. 

Tru.  p.  'Tis  true  indeed.  Your  father's  old  now,  Dick^ 
you  see,  and  would  fain  see  a  grandchilde :  tis  out  of  love  to 
you,  Dicky  that  I  perswade  you  to't ;  you  may  be  a  comfort, 
Dicky  to  your  father  now. 

Tru.  f.     You  may  command  me. 

Tru.  p.  Well  said,  Dicky  I  see  thou  lovest  me  now,  Dick ; 
dost  thou  want  any  money,  Dick?  or  cloathes?  or  horses? 
You  should  tell  me  what  you  want,  you  shall  have  any  thing — 
here's  the  Captain,  a  hearty  friend  of  yours — where's  your 
Daughter,  Captain  ?  there's  a  wench,  Dick  !  ha  you  seen  her  i 

Tru.  f.     Yes,  Sir. 

Tru.  p.     And  how  do  you  like  her,  Dick  ?  speak  freely. 

Tru.  f.     I  know  no  cause  why  any  should  dislike  her. 

Tru.  p.  Why  well  said,  Dick  j  keep  thee  o'  that  minde 
still,  and  God  will  bless  thee. 

214 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Bla.  Your  father  means,  Mr.  Truman^  I  suppose,  how  you 
like  her  for  a  wife. 

Tru,  p.  I  can  tell  my  own  meaning  my  self  I  hope,  Fm 
old  enough  Fm  sure. 

Tru.  f.     You  wrong  her  much,  I  never  shall  deserve  her. 
Alas,  I  am  a  man  so  weak  in  all  things. 
So  lost  both  to  the  world  and  to  my  self; 
That  if  I  lov'd  a  woman  heartily, 
And  woo*d  her  with  all  zealous  passions. 
And  valu*d  her  love  *bove  all  things  else  but  Heaven; 
Yet,  when  I  thought  upon  my  own  unworthiness, 
I  should  my  self  perswade  her  not  to  marry  me. 

Bla.  Well,  Sir,  if  you  esteem  her  worth  your  choise,  she 
shall  be  yours. 

Tru,  p.  Why  what  should  ayle  him.  Captain  ?  He  esteem 
her  ?  Must  he,  forsooth,  or  I  be  Master  pray  ?  Captain  Blade^ 
you  make  him  too  saucy  with  such  talk  ;  never  tell  me.  Captain 
Blade^  I  say  it  makes  him  too  saucy,  I  marry  does  it,  it  does 
i'iaith ;  must  he  be  his  own  Carver  ?  Come  no  more  words, 
1*11  have  you  married  presently :  i'faith  law,  Captain,  you  make 
him  too  saucy,  that  you  do,  you  do  i'&ith.  Sir ;  I  can't  abide 
when  sons  must  come  to  esteem,  he  esteem  her  with  a  ven- 
geance? 

Tru.  f.     I  desire  time  onely  to  consider — 

Tru.  p.  I,  why  I  told  you  this;  'tis  such  a  another  wilful, 
hair-braind  Coxcomb,  he's  always  a  considering.  Captain  Blade^ 
I  could  never  keep  him  from  his  considering;  but  I  shall  so 
consider  you — go  get  you  in,  Sir,  I'll  have  it  done  when  I 
please;  get  you  in.  Sir,  I'll  keep  you  from  considering  hereafter. 

Exeunt. 

A61.  4.     Scaen.  6. 

Aurelia^  Lucia  disguis'd. 

Aur.     What  did  you  say  your  name  was? 

Luc,     Jonty  forsooth. 

Aur.  Well  said,  Jane ;  and  as  I  told  you,  Jane^  you  shall 
have  six  poimd  a  yeer,  JanCy  for  your  wages ;  and  then  my 
cloathes  will  serve  you  with  a  little  alteration :  There's  a  gown 

215 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

of  my  Cosens  within  will  almost  fit  you,  you're  much  about  her 
heiehty  you  shall  ha'  that  too.     I  had  a  Cousin  here  was  a 
foolish  thing  god  wot,  'tis  well  I'm  rid  of  her — and  d'ye  hear — 
you  must  be  very  secret  and  faithful  to  your  Mistris ;  a  Waiting 
womans  place,  is  a  place  requires  secrecy. 
Luc,     I  shall  ill  deserve  your  fiivour  else. 
Aur,     Nay,  I  dare  trust  thee,  Jane^  thou  lookst  ingenuously: 
didst  thou  ever  live  at  Court  ? 
Luc.     No  forsooth. 

Aur.  O,  you  must  learn  the  fashions  of  the  Court:  I'm 
already  contraifted  to  one  Mr.  Punyj  though  he  little  thinks  of 
it ;  Take  heed  of  speaking,  Janey  you  see  I  trust  you.  And 
when  I'm  married  to  him  I'll  live  at  Court:  Hes  a  simple 
thing  God  knows,  but  I'll  have  him  knighted,  and  I  like  him 
the  better  for't :  A  wise  woman  you  know  will  make  the  best 
use  of  a  foolish  husband.  You  know  how  to  dress  me,  yam^ 
i'the  Court  fashion  ? 
Luc.     Yes  forsooth. 

Aur.     And  you  can  lay  me  on  a  Fucus  hansomly  ? 
Luc.     I  hope  I  shall  quickly  learn  it. 

Aur.  And  when  you  see  a  friend  with  me,  or  so,  that  I 
would  be  private  with ;  you  can  stay  i'the  next  room,  and  see 
that  no  body  come  in,  to  interrupt  us  ? 
Luc.  I  shall  not  be  deficient  in  my  duty. 
Aur.  Well  said.  And  can  you  tell  in  private  such  a 
Gentleman  that  you  heard  me  speak  in  commendation  of  him, 
and  that  I  dreamt  of  him  last  night  ?  that  will  be  in  your  way, 
Jane^  such  men  will  be  grateful.  And  say  that  I  was  longing 
t'other  day,  for  such  a  jewel  or  such  a  toy  ? 

Lucia  makes  a  courfsj. 
Luc.     I  hope  you  shall  not  finde  me  wanting  in  any  service 
to  you. 

Aur.  I  beleeve  thee,  Jane.  To  morrow  I'll  teach  thee 
more:  I  shall  read  to  you  every  day  a  lesson,  til  I  see  you 
perfedl  in  the  science :  'tis  requisite  that  you  have  a  little  of  the 
Theory  first.  Go  look  out  the  pearle  chain  in  the  Cabinet 
within ;  and  stay  till  I  come  to  you.  Exit  Jane. 

The  wench  I  see  is  docile,  and  will  learn ;  but  alas  she  must 
have  time;  she  has  a  little  [too]  much  City  breeding,  I  see, 
by  Court'sies  and  forsooths. 

2i6 


THE  GUARDIAN 

A&:,  4.     Scaen.    7. 

Aurelioy  Blade. 

Bla.  How  now  ?  all  alone,  Aurelia  ?  you're  eating  soap 
and  ashes  here,  I  warrant  you,  without  so  much  as  saying  grace 
for  'um. 

Aur,     Vd  rather  repent  in  ashes,  Sir,  then  eat  'um. 

Bla,  What  would  you  think  if  I  should  marry  now  this 
very  day? 

Aur.     I  should  think.  Sir,  you'd  repent  to  morrow  for't. 

Bla.     And  the  widow  too. 

Aur.  The  widow  ?  then  you'll  repent  to  night.  Sir,  I 
believe. 

Bla.  I  woo'd  her  long  ago,  and  now  she  sees  there's  an 
estate  hin  to  me,  faith  she's  content;  and,  to  save  charges,  is 
willing  to  be  married  to  day  privately. 

Aur.  But  I  hope  you  are  not  so,  Sir :  why  we  shall  have  all 
the  silenc'd  Ministers  humming  and  hawing  thrice  a  week  here ; 
not  a  dish  o'  meat  but  will  be  longer  a  blessing  then  a  rosting. 
I  shall  never  hear  my  Virginals  when  I  play  upon  'um,  for  her 
daughter  Tabytha*s  singing  of  Psalms.  The  first  pious  deed 
will  be,  to  banish  Shakespear  and  Ben,  Johnson  out  of  the  parlour, 
and  to  bring  in  their  rooms  Mar-prelate^  and  Pryns  works. 
You'll  ne'er  endure  't.  Sir.  You  were  wont  to  have  a  Sermon 
once  a  quarter  at  a  good  time ;  you  shall  have  ten  a  day  now. 

Bla.  Let  me  alone  to  deal  with  'um.  If  any  of  her  eating 
talking  tribe  shew  their  ears  here,  I  will  so  use  her  tribe,  that 
they  shall  free  the  Pope,  and  call  me  Antichrist  hereafter :  and 
the  widow,  I'll  warrant  you,  I'll  convert:  I'll  carry  her  to 
Plays,  in  stead  of  Lectures :  she  shall  see  them,  as  well  as  the 
dancing  o'  the  ropes,  and  the  Puppet-play  of  Nineve.  But  this 
is  not  my  business,  girl :  I  have  an  husband  too  for  you. 

Aur.  I  could  wish  you  would  keep  him,  Sir,  if  you  have 
him;  I  know  not  what  to  do  with  him  my  self. 

Bla.     Come,  'tis  a  man  you'll  like,  I'm  sure ;  I  have  heard 

jrou  often  commend  him  for  his  parts.    'Tis  young  M.  Truman. 

Aur.     Truman^  Sir  ?  the  melancholy  cross-arm'd  Gentleman 

that  talks  to  trees  and  rivers  as  he  goes  by  'um  ?     We  should 

217 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

sit  all  day  together  like  pidhires  of  man  and  wife,  with  our 
fsLces  towards  one  another,  and  never  speak.  I'll  undertake, 
upon  our  Marriage-night  he'll  onely  sigh  a  little,  cry  Cruil 
Fatty  and  then  go  sleep. 

Bla.  Never  fear't.  Come,  thou  shalt  have  him,  girl :  go 
quickly  and  dress  your  self;  we'll  both  be  married  on  a  day. 
The  humor  is  good,  and  it  saves  charges :  there's  the  widows 
humour  too. 

Aur.     You'll  give  me  leave.  Sir — 

Bla.  No,  no,  no ;  prithee  go  dress  thy  self:  by  heaven 
it  must  be  as  I  say:    the  fates  have  ordain'd  it. 

Aur,     Be  pleas'd  to  hear  me,  Sir. 

Bla.  I  would  not  hear  thee,  though  thou  wert  an  angel. 
I'm  as  resolute  as  he  that  writ  the  Resolves.  Come  away,  and 
adorn  thy  self.  Exeunt. 

AQi,   4.     Scaen.  8. 

Cutter^  Dogrely  and  Puny  disguis'd. 

Pun.  Me  thinks  I  look  now  like  a  two-peny  apple  pye, 
I  know  not  how. 

Dog.  John^  What's  your  name,  John  ?  I  have  forgot  your 
name,  John. 

Pun.  Do  you  mean  the  name  that  was  given  me  at  the 
Font  ? 

Dog.  Font  ?  Font  ?  I  do  not  remember  that  Font.  Let 
me  see  my  scroll.  (Reads.) 

There's  ne'er  a  such  town  in  Africa  as  Font. 
I  do  not  remember  Font. 

Pun.     Your  memory,  Sir,  's  as  short  as  an  Ephemerides. 

Dog.  Did  not  I  warn  you,  John^  of  such  strange  what-d'ye- 
call-ums  ?  Here's  for  that  word.  (Strikes.)  I  have  forgot 
what  word  'twas:  for  the  word  I  mean. 

Pun.     Pox  take  you,  Dogrely  you  strike  too  hard. 

Cut.  Thou'dst  aft  well,  I  see:  we'll  ha'  thee  to  Golden- 
lane,  and  there  thou  shalt  do  a  King,  or  else  some  God  in  thine 
own  cloathes. 

218 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Dog.     When  a  dead  man  from  Orcus  I  retraft, 
Well  may  vou  see  that  to  the  life  I  aft. 

Pun.  Did  not  I  warn  you  o'  these  what-d*yc-call-ums  ? 
'Faith  we'll  be  even,  Master.  Strikes  him. 

Cut.  Very  well,  John^  those  be  good  Memorandums  for 
your  Master. 

Dog.  I  should  be  angry  with  thee  for  it,  but  that  I  ha'  quite 
forgot  it. 

Cut.  Let's  see  your  scroll.  (Reads)  Memorandum  for  my 
house:  I  have  a  hoiise  in  Fleetstreet,  with  a  garden  to't.  My 
daughter  is  call'd  Lucia ;  a  handsome  fiiir  maid  with  red  cheeks, 
black  eyes,  and  brown  hair,  and  a  little  dimple  in  her  chin.  My 
brother's  name  (to  whom  I  left  the  charge  of  my  daughter)  is 
Blade.  (A  most  excellent  Note  indeed.)  What  ha'  we  here  ? 
Memorandums  concerning  my  estate.  What,  they're  all  of  this 
stamp,  are  they  not?  Take  heed,  Dogrely  the  Captain's  a 
shrewd  fellow ;  he'll  examine  you  more  striftly  then  the  Spanish 
Inquisition  can. 

Dog.  Pish,  if  he  pose  me  in  any  thing,  my  memory's  weak, 
he  knows ;  I  h'  forgot  it  quite. 

Cut.     And  then  your  voice  I  fear ;  and  then — 

Dog.  Pox  take  you.  Gutter ;  a  Casuist  would  not  finde  so 
many  scruples. 

Pun.  The  devil's  in't,  I  shall  never  do  this  part;  I  know 
not  how  to  ^)eak  and  not  be  witty. 

Cut.  Well,  look  to't,  gallants  ;  if  the  Captain  finde  you  out, 
he'll  abuseyou  most  immercifiilly — I'm  now  for  Tabytha. 

Pun.  The  Captain  abuse  me  ?  By  this  day,  I'll  jeer  with 
him  with  my  hands  bound  behinde  me.     Come  away.  Master. 

Dog.     I,  yohn\  but  which  way  did  we  come? 

Pun.     Why  this  way.  Master. 

Dog.  Then  that  way  we  must  go.  Is  not  this  my  house  in 
Fleet  street,  John  ?  I  thought  you  had  said  t'had  been  in  Fleet 


run.     Yes,  so    tis.  Sir. 

Dog.     Truly  I  thought  you  said  so.     Come  away,  John. 

Exeunt. 


Finis  A^fus  juarti. 

219 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

A(9:.  5.     Scaen.    i. 

CutteTy  Tabytha. 

Cut,  And  the  vision  told  me,  sister  Tabytha^  that  this  same 
day,  the  twelfth  of  March,  in  the  yeer  of  grace  1641,  at  this 
same  holv  place,  by  a  holy  man,  we  two,  who  are  both  holy 
vessels,  should  be  joyned  together  in  the  holy  band  of  Mat- 
rimony. 

Tab,     My  mother  will  be  angry,  I'm  afFeard. 

Cut,  Your  mother  will  rejoyce.  I  would  not  for  a  world 
that  you  should  do  it,  but  that  we  were  commanded  from 
above ;  yea,  I  may  say  commanded :  for,  to  do  things  without 
a  divine  warrant,  is  like  unto  the  building  of  a  fire  without 
a  bottom  cake. 

Tab.     I  (God  knows)  that  it  is. 

Cut,  Very  well,  sister.  Now  when  my  eyes  were  opened 
in  the  morning,  I  awoke:  for  it  was  morning-tide,  and  my  eyes 
were  opened ;  and  I  looked  into  my  pockets ;  for  my  breeches 
lay  upon  a  joy n'd  stool  not  far  from  the  beds  side :  and  in  my 
pockets,  even  made  with  leather,  I  looked  (I  say)  and  found; 
What  did  I  finde  ?  marry  a  License  written  with  ink  and  pen : 
Where  did  I  finde  it  ?  in  no  other  place,  but  even  in  a  godly 
Catechism  which  I  had  wrapt  and  folded  up  long-ways,  even  in 
that  very  pocket. 

Tab.  I  wou'd  my  mother  knew  it.  But  I'll  not  resist, 
God  willing. 

Cut.  There  is  a  godly  Teacher  within,  that  never  was 
defiled  with  the  Cap  and  Surplice,  never  wore  that  gambol 
call'd  the  Hood;  even  he  shall  joyn  our  hands.  Shall  we 
enter,  sister? 

Tab.     Brother,  I'll  not  resist.  Exgunt. 

AQi.   5.     Scaen.   2. 

Truman  filius,  Aurelia. 

Tru.     And  must  we  marry  then  f 

Aur.     It  appears  so  by  the  story. 

Tru.     Why  will  you  marry  me?     What  is  there  in  me 

220 


THE  GUARDIAN 

That  may  deserve  your  liking?     I  shall  be 
The  most  ill-fiivourM  m[e]lancholy  Bridegroom 
That  ever  took  a  melting  maid  t'his  bed: 
The  Acuities  of  my  Soul  are  all  untim'd, 
And  every  glory  of  my  spreading  youth 
Is  turn*d  into  a  strange  and  sudden  winter. 
You  cannot  love  me  sure. 

Aur,     No  by  my  troth,  Sir. 

Tni.     No,  nor  I  you.     Why  should  we  marry  then  ? 
TTwere  a  meer  folly,  were  it  not  Aurelia  ? 

Aur.     Nay,  ask  our  Parents  why.     But,  Sir,  they  say 
nris  the  best  marriage  where  like  is  joyned  to  like; 
Now  we  two  are  a  very  even  match; 
For  neither  I  love  you,  nor  you  love  me; 
And  'tis  ten  to  one  but  we  shall  beget 
Children  that  will  love  neither  of  us. 

Tru.     Nay,  by  my  Soul  I  love  you,  but  alas. 
Not  in  that  way  that  husbands  love  their  wives; 
I  cannot  play,  nor  toy,  nor  kiss,  nor  do 
I  know  not  what:  And  yet  I  was  a  lover. 
As  true  a  lover — 

Aur.     Alack  a  day.  Sir. 

Tru.     *Twas  then  me-thought  the  greatest  happiness 
To  sit  and  talk,  and  look  upon  my  Mistris, 
Or  (if  she  was  not  by)  to  think  upon  her. 
Then  every  morning  next  to  my  devotion. 
And  sometimes  too  (forgive  me  Heav'n)  before  it, 
She  slipt  into  my  fancy,  and  I  took  it 
As  a  good  omen  for  the  following  day. 
It  was  a  pretty  foolish  kind  of  life. 
An  honest  harmless  vanity:  But  now 
The  fairest  fiice  moves  me  no  more  then  Snow 
Or  Lillies  when  I  see  'um  and  pass  by. 
And  I  as  soon  shall  deeply  fall  in  love 
With  the  fresh  scarlet  of  an  Easterne  cloud. 
As  the  red  lips  and  cheeks  of  any  woman. 
I  do  confess,  Aurtlia^  thou  art  fair 
And  very  lovely,  and  (I  think)  good  naturM. 

Aur.    Faith,  Sir,  I  would  not  willingly  be  a  man,  if  they 
be  ail  like  you. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Tru,     And  prithee  now,  AureUoy  tell  me  truly, 
Are  any  women  constant  in  their  vowes? 
Can  they  continue  a  whole  week  ?   a  month  ? 
And  never  change  their  fiiith  ?     O  if  they  could, 
They  would  be  excellent  things.     Nay,  ne'er  dissemble: 
Are  not  their  lusts  unruly,  insolent, 
And  as  commanding  as  their  beauties  are? 
Are  their  tears  true  and  solid  when  they  weep? 

Aur,     Sure,  Mr.  Truman^  you  ha'n*t  slept  of  late; 
If  we  be  married  to  night,  what  will 
You  do  for  sleep? 

Tru,    Why  ?     Do  not  married  people  use  to  sleep  ? 

Aur,     Yes,  yes.     Alas  good  innocence ! 

Tru,     They  have  a  scurvy  time  oft  if  they  do  not; 
But  we'll  not  be  as  other  people  are. 
We'll  finde  out  some  new  hansome  way  of  love, 
Some  kind  of  way  that  few  shall  imitate. 
But  all  admire.     For  'tis  a  sordid  thing 
That  lust  should  dare  t'insinuate  it  self 
Into  the  marriage-bed.     We'll  get  no  children, 
The  worst  of  men  and  women  can  do  that. 
Besides  too,  if  our  issue  should  be  female, 
They  would  all  learn  to  flatter  and  dissemble. 
They'd  all  deceive  with  promises  and  vowes 
Some  simple  man,  and  then  turn  false  and  kill  him. 
Would  they  not  do't  Aurelia  ? 

Aur,  Our  sex  is  little  beholding  to  you.  Sir ;  I  would  your 
mother  were  alive  to  hear  you.  But  pray,  Mr.  Truman^  what 
shall  we  do  when  we  are  married  ? 

Tru,     Why  we'll  live  lovingly  together: 
Sometimes  we'll  sit  and  talk  of  excellent  things, 
And  laugh  at  all  the  nonsence  of  the  world: 
Sometimes  we'll  walk  together  into  the  fields: 
Sometimes  we'll  pray  and  read,  and  sometimes  eat, 
And  sometimes  sleep;  and  then  at  last  we'll  die, 
And  go  to  heav'n  together.    'Twill  be  dainty. 

Aur,  We  may  do  this,  me  thinks,  and  never  marry  for 
the  business. 

Tru,     'Tis  true,  we  might  do  so: 
But  since  our  parents  are  resolv'd  upon't, 

211 


THE  GUARDIAN 

In  such  a  trifle  let  'um  have  their  humour. 
My  father  sent  me  here  to  complement, 
And  keep  a  prating  here,  and  play  the  fool: 
I  cannot  do  *t.     What  should  I  do,  Aurelia  ? 
What  do  they  iise  to  say? 

Aur.     Sure,  Sir,  you  knew,  when  you  were  a  suitor  to  my 
cousin  Lucia. 

Ttk.     I,  but  those  days  are  past,  and  I  have  now 
Forgot  what  manner  of  man  a  lover  is: 
I  was  one  then,  Fm  sure  on't.     O  that  Lucia^ 
That  Lucia  was  so  wonderful  a  creature — 
There  was  a  cheek,  a  lip,  a  nose,  an  eye ! 
Did  you  observe  her  eye,  Aurelia? 

Aur.     Yes,  yes.  Sir,  you  were  wont  to  sit  all  day. 
And  look  upon  the  pretty  babies  in  it. 

TVk.     It  was  as  glorious  as  the  eye  of  heav'n. 
Like  the  souls  eye,  dispersed  through  ev'ry  thing. 
And  then  her  hands !    her  hands  of  liquid  Ivory  ! 
Did  she  but  touch  her  Lute  (the  pleasing'st  harmony 
Then  upon  earth,  when  she  her  self  was  silent) 
The  subtil  motion  of  her  flying  fingers 
Taught  Musick  a  new  art.  To  take  the  sight 
As  well  as  th'ear. 

Aur.     I,   I,   Sir,  y'had   best  go  look  her  out,  and   marry 
her.  ^ 

Tru.     Nay  prithee  be  not  angry,  good  Aurelia  \ 
I  do  not  say  she  is  more  fiiir  then  thou  art: 
Yet  if  I  did — No,  but  I  will  not  say  so : 
Onely  I  strive  to  cherish  the  remembrance 
Of  one  I  lov*d  so  well.     And,  now  I  think  on't, 
1*11  beg  a  fiivour  of  you:  you'll  laugh  at  me, 
I  know,  when  you  have  heard  me:  but  I'll  beg  it: 
Prithee  be  veil'd  as  Lucia  was  of  late; 
Cast  such  a  silken  cloud  upon  thy  beauty 
For  this  one  day:  I'd  bin  marry  you  so. 
nfis  an  odde  foolish  humour,  I  confess: 
But  love  and  grief  may  be  allow'd  sometimes 
A  little  innocent  folly. 

Aur.     Well,  I'll  obey  your  humour;  pray  walk  in  there; 
m  onely  dress  my  self,  and  wait  upon  you. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Tru,     And  wc*II  be  married  very  privately. 
None  but  our  selves,  it  will  be  best,  Aurelia.  Exit. 

Aur.  Why  here's  a  husband  for  a  wench  of  clouts  1  May 
I  never  laugh  again,  if  his  company  has  not  made  me  duller 
then  Ale  and  butter'd  cakes  wou'd  ha*  done.  I  marry  him  ? 
the  old  men  must  excuse  me.  I'll  sooner  chuse  a  fellow  that 
lies  bed-rid,  and  can  do  nothing  a^nights  but  cough.  Well,  if 
I  don't  teach  'um  what  'tis  to  force  a  wench  that  has  wit,  may 
my  husband  beat  me  when  I  have  one,  and  I  sit  still  and  cry. 
I  like  this  very  well — It  shall  be  so.     yant^  come  hither,  Jam. 


A(9:.  5.     Scaen.  3. 

Aurelia^  Lucia. 

Aur,  O  fane^  that's  well;  little  think  you  what  good's 
towards  you ;  'tis  that  you  have  wisht  for,  I  dare  say,  these  five 
yeers ;  a  good  handsome  husband.  What  think  you  of  young 
Truman  ? 

Luc,     I  think  every  thing 
That  makes  a  man  compleat,  and  his  wife  happie, 
The  richest  glories  of  a  minde  and  body. 
And  their  not  ill  companion,  Fortune  too. 
Are  reconcil'd  and  married  all  in  him: 
And  I  commend  the  wisdom  of  your  stars. 
That  joyn  you  two  together. 

Aur,  Nay  faith  thou  shalt  e'en  have  him  thy  self  for  better 
or  worse.  He's  too  hansome  indeed,  unless  he  could  make 
better  use  of  his  beauty;  for  by  my  troth,  wench,  I'm  afraid 
thou'it  finde  thy  pillow  as  good  a  bed-fellow. 

Luc,     I  pray  do  not  mock  your  servant. 

Aur,  Thou  shalt  see,  Tane^  I  do  not;  come  in,  wench, 
and  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  plot.  ExtunU 


224 


THE  GUARDIAN 

A61.  5.     Scaen.  4. 

Bladej  Servant. 

Bla,  Well,  Sir,  is  the  Cook  doing  according  to  jpy  direc- 
tions ? 

SfTv.  Yes,  Sir,  hc*s  very  hard  at  his  business  i*the  kitchin : 
h'  has  been  a  swearing  and  cursing  at  the  scullions  at  least  this 
hour,  Sir. 

Bla.  *Tis  such  an  over-wasted  Coxcomb ;  an  other  wedding 
dinner  would  make  him  a  S.  Laurence  \  bid  him  be  sure  the 
Venison  be  well  seasoned. 

Serv.  Troth,  Sir,  I  dare  not  speak  to  him  now,  unless  I  put 
on  the  armor  in  the  hall :  he  had  like  to  have  spitted  me  next 
to  a  goose,  for  saying  that  he  look'd  like  an  ox  that  was  roasted 
whole  at  S.  Jamis  fiiyre. 

Bla.  You  have  invited  all  the  guests  to  dinner  you 
talked  of? 

Serv.     Yes,  Sir. 

Bla.     And  the  widdows  round-headed  kindred  ? 

Serv.     Yes,  Sir. 

Bla.  They*l  come  i*their  garded  petticoats,  will  they  not  ? 
You  should  have  bid  'um  eat  no  porrige  at  home,  to  seem  more 
mannerly  here  at  dinner.  The  widdow  will  be  angry  at  their 
charges,  but  I'll  please  her  at  night.  Go  bid  the  Butler  look  to 
his  plate,  and  not  be  drunk  till  he  sees  it  all  in  again.  Whose 
at  the  door  there  ? 

AQi,  5.     Scaen.  5. 

Blade^  Dogrely  and  Puny  disguised. 

Serv.  Faith,  Sir,  you  know  as  well  as  I ;  some  charitable 
beast  come  to  be  drest  here.     Shall  I  call  the  Cook,  Sir  ? 

Dog.  Why  this  is  my  house  here,  John :  ha  !  ha !  little 
thought  I  to  have  seen  my  house  in  Fleet-street  again.  Where's 
my  brother  Blade  ? 

Bla.     They  call  me  Captain  Blade. 

c  II.  P  225 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Dog,  Is  this  he  yohn?  Let  me  see  {reads)  A  proper  burlj 
man,  with  a  whiteish  beard,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nose  inclining 
to  red,  'tis  true.  Save  you  good  brother,  you  did  not  expert  me 
here;  did  you  brother?  Stay  let  me  see  how  many  yeers  ago 
is't  since  we  went  from  home  ? 

Pun.     'Tis  now  just  seven.  Sir. 

Dog.  Seven  !  me  think's  I  was  here  but  yesterday :  How 
the  what-d'ye-call-'um  runs  ?     What  do  ye  call  it  ? 

Pun.     Time,  Sir. 

Dog.  I,  I,  Time.  What  was't  I  was  saying  ?  O,  I  was 
telling  you  brother,  that  I  had  quite  forgot  you:  was  I  not 
telling  him  so  John  f 

Bla.  By  my  troth.  Sir,  we  are  both  quits  then ;  for  I  have 
forgot  you  too.     Why,  you  were  dead  five  yeers  ago. 

Dog.  Was  I  so  ?  I  ha'  quite  forgot  it.  John^  was  I  dead 
five  yeers  ago  ?     My  memory  failes  me  very  much  of  late. 

Pun.  We  were  worse  then  dead  I'm  sure;  we  were  taken 
by  a  barbarous  kind  of  Nation,  and  there  made  slaves  these  five 
yeers.  John  quoth  he  !  I  was  poor  John  indeed :  I*m  sure 
they  fed  us  three  whole  yeers  with  nothing  but  Acorns  and 
water:  we  lookt  like  wicker-bottles. 

Dog.  How,  Sirrah  f  Did  your  Master  look  like  a  wicked 
boat-man  ?  {strikes  him)  Nay  I  remember  what  you  said  we 
lookt  like.     Did  wc  look  like  what-d'ye-call-ums  ? 

Bla.     Where  did  they  take  you  prisoners? 

Dog.  Nay  ask  John^  he  can  tell  you  I  warrant  you.  'Twas 
in — tell  him,  Johny  where  it  was. 

Pun.     In  Guiny,  Sir. 

Bla.     By  what  Country-men  were  you  taken  ? 

Dog.  Why  they  were  call'd — I  know  not  what  they  call'd 
*um  'twas  an  oddc  kinde  of  name  ;  but  John  can  tell  you. 

Pun.  'Slife,  who  I,  Sir  ?  d'ye  think  I  can  remember  all 
things  ? 

Dog.  'Tis  in  my  book  here ;  I  remember  well  the  name  of 
any  Country  under  the  Sun. 

Pun.  I  know  their  names.  Sir,  well  enough ;  but  I  onely 
tri'd  my  Masters  memory.     They're  call'd  Tartarians. 

Dog.     How  say  you  r    what  were  they  ? 

Pun.     Tartarians,  Sir. 

Dog.     I,  I,  these  were  the  men. 

226 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Bla.  How,  John  !  why  all  the  world,  man,  lies  between 
'um :  thev  live  up  i*  the  North. 

Pun.     The  North  ? 

Bla.     I,  the  very  North,  John. 

Pun.  That's  true  indeed :  but  these  were  another  nation  of 
the  Tartarians  that  liv'd  by  us. 

Bla.     Well,  how  escap  d  you,  Johny  at  last  ? 

Pun.  Why  *faith,  Sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  for  I  love  not  to 
tell  a  lye,  the  Kings  daughter  fell  in  love  with  me,  and  for  my 
sake  there  set  us  free.  My  master  has  it  all  in  his  book ;  'tis  a 
fine  story. 

Bla.     Strange !     In  what  ship  did  you  come  back  ? 

D9g.  What  ship  ?  why  'twas  calPd — a  thing  that  swims — 
How  d'ye  call  it  ? 

Bla.     What  ?  the  Mermaid  ? 

Dog.     No,  no,  no,  let  me  see — 

Bla.     What  ?  was't  the  Triton  ? 

Dog*     No,  no — it  swims,  I  tell  you. 

Bla.     The  Dolphin  ? 

Dog.     No,  no^I  have  forgot  what  'twas. 

Bla.     What  say  you,  John  ? 

Pun.  (Pox  take  him.)  I,  Sir?  O  God,  my  Master,  Sir, 
can  tell  as  well  as  I. 

Bla.     He  sa}rs  he  has  forgot. 

Pun.  'Tis  his  pleasure  to  say  so.  Sir  :  he  may  say  what  he 
pleases.  (A  plague  upon  him.)  You  can't  conceive  the  misery 
we  have  past.  Sir. 

Bla.  Well,  brother,  I'll  make  bold  to  ask  one  question  more 
of  you.  Where  did  you  leave  your  Will  when  you  went 
away? 

Pun.     'Slife,  now  he's  pos'd  again. 

Dog.  I'll  tell  you  presently,  brother ;  let  me  see.  (Reads.) 
Memorandum  for  my  Will:  Left  to  my  brother  Blade  the 
whole  charge  of  my  estate — hum — ^What  did  you  ask  me, 
brother  ? 

Bla.     In  what  place  you  left  your  Will? 

Dog.  I,  that  was  it  indeed ;  you're  i'  the  right ;  'twas  the 
very  thing  you  askt  me ;  and  yet  see  how  quickly  I  forgot  it. 
My  memory's  short,  alas,  God  help  me. 

Bla.     This  is  no  answer  to  my  question,  yet. 

p  2  xa-] 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

D9g.     'Tis  true  indeed.     What  was  your  questioiii  pray  ? 

Bla.     Where  you  left  your  Will. 

Dog.  Good  lord  !  I  had  forgot  you  askt  me  this ;  I  had 
forgot,  i'  faithlaw,  that  I  had:  you'U  pardon  my  infirmity,  I 
hope  brother;  for  alas — alas — I  ha'  forgot  what  1  was  going  to 
say  to  you ;  but  I  was  a  saying  somthing,  I  am  sure. 

Pun.     Did  not  you  know  us,  H^illi  prithee  tell's  true. 

Serv.  No,  by  this  light:  why,  you're  grown  as  black  as  the 
chimney-stock. 

Pun.  That's  the  nature  of  the  Country  where  we  liv'd. 
O  the  stories  that  I  shall  tell  you  I  And  how  does  NiU^  and 
little  bonny  Bess  f  are  they  as  merry  grigs  as  e'er  they  were  \ 

Serv.  No ;  BesSy  poor  wench,  is  married  to  a  Chandler ;  but 
she's  true  blue  still,  as  right  as  my  leg,  I'll  warrant  you. 

Dog.  What  is't,  John?  what  was  I  going  to  say,  J^bn^  to 
my  brother  ? 

Pun.     I  know  not.  Sir ;  was't  not  about  your  daughter  ? 

Dog.     I,  I,  my  daughter — What  d'ye  call  her  ? 

Pun.     Lucia  J  Sir. 

Dog.     'Tis  true  indeed ;  my  daughter  Lucia j  brother. 

Bla.  Pray  walk  into  the  parlour;  I'll  come  to  you  pre- 
sently, and  tell  you  all. 

Dog.  Well,  Johny  put  me  in  minde  o'  my  daughter  Lucia. 
(A  plague  o'  your  Tartarians.) 

Pun.     (And  o'your  what-d'ye-call  ums.) 

Dog,     ('Slife,  Tartarians.)  Exeunt  Dog.  Pun. 

Bla.  If  these  be  rogues,  they  are  as  impudent  as  Mounte- 
banks and  Juglers:  and  if  I  finde  'um  to  be  rogues,  (as  I  see 
nothing  yet  to  the  contrary)  how  I  will  exercise  my  rogues ! 
The  tyranny  of  a  new  Beadle  over  a  beggar,  shall  be  nothing  to 
mine.  Come  hither,  JVill^  what  think  you  of  these  two 
fellows  ? 

Serv.  'Faith,  Sir,  I  know  not :  but  if  you  think  it  be  not 
my  old  Master,  I'll  beat  'um  worse  then  the  Tartarians  did. 

Bla.  No,  no,  let's  try  'um  first.  Thou  wast  wont  to  be  a 
very  precious  knave,  and  a  great  ader  too,  a  very  Roscius. 
Didst  not  thou  once  a£t  the  Clown  in  Musidorus  f 

Serv.     No,  Sir ;  but  I  plaid  the  Bear  there. 

Bla.  The  Bear  ?  why  that's  a  good  part ;  th'art  an  adcr 
then,  I'll  warrant  thee.     The  Bear's  a  well-pen'd  part.     And 

22S 


THE   GUARDIAN 

you  remember  my  brothers  humour,  don't  you  ?  They  have 
abnost  hit  it. 

Serv.  Yes,  Sir,  I  know  the  shortness  of  my  Masters 
memory ;  he  would  forget  sometimes  to  pay  me  my  wages  till 
he  was  put  in  minde  on't. 

Bla.  Well  said.  I'll  dress  thee  within  in  his  own  chamber; 
and  all  the  servants  shall  acknowledge  you.  But  who  shall  do 
trusty  John? 

Serv.  Oj  Ralph  the  Butler,  Sir ;  he's  an  old  ador.  Sir,  h'has 
plaid  a  King  he  says.  I  have  heard  him  speak  a  Play  ex  tempore 
in  the  Buttry,  Sir. 

Bla.  O  Ralph^  excellent  Ralpbj  incomparable  Ralphy  Ralph 
against  the  world  !  Come  away,  IVilliam ;  I'll  give  you  in- 
strudions  within.     It  must  be  done  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Exeunt. 


A61.   5.     Scaen.  6. 

Cuttery  Tahythoy  Boy, 

Cut.     Now,  Mistress  Tabytha  Cutter^  let  me  kiss  thee. 
Tab.     Pray  God  my  mother  be  not  angry. 
Cut.     Think  not  o'  thy  mother,  Spouse ;  I  tell  thee.  Spouse, 
thou  shalt  be  a  mother  thy  self,  within  these  nine  months. 
Come  to  my  bed,  my  dear ;  my  dear  come  to  my  bed : 
For  the  pleasant  pain. 
And  the  loss  with  gain. 

Is  the  loss  of  a  maidenhead. 
Tab.     Is  that  a  Psalm,  brother  husband,  that  you  sing? 
Cut.     No,  no,   a  short   ejaculatory.      Sirrah    boy,  are  the 
things  virithin  that  I  spoke  for? 
Boy.     Yes,  Sir. 

Cut.     Go  fetch  'um  in.  Exit  Boy. 

Come,   Tabytha^  let's  be   merry:    Canst  thou   sing   a   catch, 
wench  ?     O  well  said.  Boy  !  Enter  boy  with  a  hat  and  a 

feather^   a    broad  bandy   a 
sword  &  a  belty  &  a  periwig. 
Tab.     What  do  you  mean,  brother  husband  ? 
I  hope  you'U  not  turn  roarer. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut,  What  ?  do  these  cloathes  befit  Queen  Tabytha\  hus- 
band ?  this  hat  with  a  chimny>crown,  and  brims  no  broader 
then  a  moderate  hat-band?  Give  me  the  Periwig,  bojr.  What? 
shall  Empress  Tahytha^s  husband  go  as  if  his  head  were  scalded  ? 
or  with  the  seam  of  a  shirt  for  a  band  ?  Shall  I  walk  without 
a  sword,  and  not  dare  to  quarrel  i*  the  streets,  and  thrust 
men  from  the  wall?  Will  the  Fidlers  be  here  presently, 
boy? 

Boy.     Yes,  Sir. 

Tab,  Pish,  1  can't  abide  these  doings.  Are  you  mad  ?  O 
lord  !  what  will  my  mother  say  ?  There  shall  come  no  Fidlers 
here. 

Cut.  Be  peaceable,  gentle  Tabytha ;  they  will  not  bring  the 
Organs  with  'um.  I  say  be  peaceable ;  [t]he  vision  bid  me  do 
thus.     Wilt  thou  resist  the  vision  ? 

Tab.  An*  these  be  your  visions — Little  did  I  think  *twerc — 
Is  this  your  religion  and  praying  ?  Which  of  all  the  Prophets 
wore  such  a  map  about  his  head,  or  such  a  sheet  about  his  neck  ? 
What  shall  I  do  ?     I  am  undone. 

Cut.  What  shalt  thou  do  ?  Why,  thou  shalt  dance,  and 
sing,  and  drink,  and  laugh ;  thou  shalt  go  with  thy  brests  open, 
and  thy  hair  braided ;  thou  shalt  put  fine  black  stars  upon  thy 
face,  and  have  great  bobs  for  thy  ears.  Nay,  if  thou  dost 
begin  to  look  rustily,  I'll  have  thee  paint  thy  face  like  the 
whore  of  Babylon. 

Tab.     O  that  ever  I  was  born  to  see  this  day  ! 

Cut.  What  ?  dost  thou  weep,  Queen  Dido  ?  Thou  shalt 
have  Sack  to  drive  away  thy  sorrow.  Come  hither,  boy,  fetch 
me  a  quart  of  Canary.  (Exit  boy.)  Thou  shalt  see  1*11  be  a 
loving  husband  to  thee.  The  vision,  Tabytha^  bid  me  give  you 
drink:  we  must  obey  these  visions.  Sing,  Tabytha:  Cry  on 
your  wedding-day  ?  'tis  ominous. 
Come  to  my  bed,  my  dear; 

Come  to  my  bed: 
For  the  pleasant  pain —  Enter  boy  with  tvim. 

O  art  thou  come,  boy — Well  said,  fill  a  brimmer ;  nay  fuller 
yet,  yet  a  little  fuller.  So.  Here's  to  the  Lady-Spouse ;  to  our 
good  sport  to  night. 

Tab.     Drink  it  your  self,  if  you  will ;  I'll  not  touch  it 

Cut.     By  this  hand,  thou  shalt  pledge  me,  seeing  the  vision 

230 


THE  GUARDIAN 

said  so.     Drink,  or  I'll  take  a  Coach  and  cany  thee  to  a  Play 
immediately. 

Tab.     I  can't  abide —  (She  drinks,) 

Cut.  Why,  this  will  clear  thy  heart,  wench :  Sack,  and  an 
husband,  wench,  are  both  comfortable  things.  Have  at  you 
again. 

Tab.     ril  pledge  you  no  more,  not  I. 

Cut.  Here,  take  this  glass,  and  take  it  oS  too,  or  else  PU 
swear  an  hundred  oathes  in  a  breathing-time.     Here — 

Tab.     Well,  you're  the  strangest  man — 

Cut.  Why  this  is  right  now.  Nay  off  with  it.  So.  But 
the  vision  said  that  whatsoever  we  left  of  this  same  wine, 
would  turn  to  poison  straight.  There,  here's  to  you,  Tabythoy 
once  again:  'tis  the  visions  will. 

Tab.  What  ?  must  I  drink  again,  then  ?  Well,  I'll  not 
resist.  You're  such  another  brother-husband.  (Drinks.) 
There's  a  whole  one  now — 

Come  to  my  bed,  my  dear; 
Come  to  my  bed — 
How  was't?     Twas  a  pretty  one. 

Cut.  O  divine  Tabytha  1  Here  come  the  Fidlers  too. 
Strike  up,  you  rogues. 

Tab.  What  ?  must  we  dance  now  ?  is  not  that  the  fashion  ? 
I  could  have  danc'd  the  Coranto  when  I  was  a  girl.  The 
Coranto's  a  curious  dance. 

Cut.  We'll  dance  out  the  disease  of  the  Tarantula:  but 
first  we'll  have  a  health  to  my  pretty  Tabytha. 

Tab.  I'll  begin't  my  self.  Here,  Duck,  here's  to  all  that 
love  us. 

Cut.  A  health,  you  eternal  scrapers,  sound  a  health.  Brave- 
ly done,  Tabytha :  what  thinkst  thou  now  o'  thy  mother  ? 

Tab.  A  fig  for  my  mother;  I'll  be  a  mother  my  self. 
Come,  Duckling,  shall  we  go  home  ? 

Cut.  Go  home  ?  the  Bride  and  the  Bridegroom  go  ?  We'll 
dance  home.  Afore  us,  squeakers:  that  way,  and  be  hang'd. 
So.  O  brave  Queen  Tabytha  !  excellent  Empress  Tabytha  ! 
On,  you  rogues.  They  go  out  dancing^  with 

tht  musick  before  *um. 


231 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


A6k.  5.     Scaen.   7. 

Bladej  Dogrely  Puny. 

Dog.  I  must  not  be  fob'd  off  thus  about  my  daughter:  I 
remember  not  your  excuse;  but  John  can  tell  well  enough, 
I  warrant  you. 

Bla.  I  have  told  you  the  plain  truth :  you'll  not  be  angry, 
I  hope. 

Dog.  I  shall  have  cause  to  be  angry,  I  fear:  Did  not  I 
leave  her  to  his  charge,  John?     Brother,  I  tell  you — 

Bla.     I  must  not  answer,  brother — 

Dog.  I  know  you  put  me  out,  that  I  might  forget  what 
I  said  to  you  before:  remember,  jfohn:  I'll  be  as  cunning  as 
you're  crafty :  remember,  John.  How  now  ?  what's  the 
matter  ?  Enter  servant. 

Serv.  Ho,  my  old  Master's  come;  he's  lighted  now  at  the 
door  with  his  man  John :  he's  asking  for  you ;  he  longs  to  see 
you :  my  Master,  my  old  Master. 

Bla.     This  fellow's  mad. 

Serv.     If  you  wo'n't  believe  me,  go  in  and  see.  Sir:  he*s  not 
so  much  alter'd,  but  you'll  quickly  know  him.     I  knew  him  as 
soon  as  I  saw  him.     rray.  Sir,  go  in. 
.'X  Exeunt  Blade  and  servant. 

kL2.  ^-  (BIoJ    Why  this  is  strange. 

^tt«.     If  this  be  true,  what  course  shall  we  take,  Dcgrelf 
I  begin  to  shake  like  a  plum-tree-leaf. 

Dog.     We'll  shift  some  way  or  other,  I  warrant  you. 

Pun.     How,  Dogrel?  prithee  how  ? 

Dog.  Let  the  worst  come,  we  can  be  but  whipt,  or  burnt  in 
the  hand,  at  the  most. 

Pun.  Ho,  our  best  way  will  be  to  hang  our  selves — 'Slife, 
here's  John. 


232 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Aft.  5.     Scaen.  8. 

Dogrely  Punyj  John^  two  or  thrte  servants, 

1  Serv.  Give  me  thy  hand  i'fkith,  boy:  is't  possible  that 
thou  shouldst  be  alive  still? 

2  Sirv.  Ha  rogue  !  art  thou  come  i 'faith  ?  I  have  a  pottle 
o'  Sack  to  welcome  thee. 

3  Serv.  Why  you'll  not  look  upon  your  poor  friends,  John, 
Give  my  thy  goUs,  yohn.  How  hast  thou  done  this  great 
while  ? 

John.  I  thank  you  all  heartily  for  your  love;  thank  you 
with  adl  my  heart-law.  What  ?  my  old  bed-fellow  Robin  ? 
how  dost  do  ?  when  shall  we  steal  Apricocks  again  ?  d'ye 
remember,  Robin? 

2  Serv.  A  murrain  take  you ;  you'll  never  forget  your 
roguery. 

Pun.     A  murrain  take  you  all :  this  was  your  plot,  and  be 
hang'd.     Would  I  were  Puny  the  Wit  again. 
Dog,     Accursed  Fate — 

3  Serv,  Come,  Johny  let's  go  to  the  Buttry  and  be  merry : 
Ralph  longs  to  see  you,  I'm  sure. 

John,  And  how  does  Ralph  ?  good  honest  Ralph  ?  That 
Ralp\hys  as  honest  a  fellow,  though  I  say  't  my  self ;  I  love  him 
with  all  my  heart-law,  that  I  do;  and  there's  no  love  lost, 
I  dare  say  for  him. 

2  Sirv,  Come,  my  masters,  will  you  go  in  ?  I'll  prevail 
with  the  Cook  for  a  slice  or  two  of  Beef;  and  we'll  have  a 
cup  of  Stingo,  the  best  in  the  cellar. 

John.  Well  said,  steel  to  the  back  still;  that  was  your 
word,  you  know.  My  master's  coming  in :  go,  I'll  follow  you 
straight. 

I  Serv.     Make  haste,  good  John^  for  I  can't  stay. 

Exeunt  Servants. 

John.  Here's  a  company  of  as  honest  fellows  as  a  man 
would  wish  to  live  i'  the  house  withal ;  all,  no  man  excepted. 

Hog.  Would  I  were  out  of  the  house,  as  honest  as  they  are. 
Here  they  come,  John. 

Pun.     John^  quoth  he,  with  a  pox. 

^33 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

A6k.  5.     Scaen.  9. 

Dogrely  Punyy  Johfty  Blade^  William. 

Bla.     Me  thinks  you're  not  returned,  Sir, 
But  born  to  us  anew,  and  I  could  wish 
My  tongue  were  not  more  niggardly  then  my  heart 
In  giving  you  a  welcom. 

Will.  Thank  you  good  brother.  Truly  we  ha*  past 
through  many  dangers;  my  man  shall  tell  you  all,  Pm  old 
and  crasy,  and  forget  these  things.  {Enter  fVidtw. 

Bla.  Pox  on't,  the  Widow's  come  already ;  keep  'lun  here, 
John^  till  I  come  back.     O  are  you  here  sweet-heart  ? 

fVid.     Who  have  you  yonder,  I  pray  ? 

Bla.     O,  you  should  not  ha'  seen  'um  yet,  they  are  Maskers 

IVid.     Not  vagrant  players,  I  hope  ? 

Bla,  No,  no,  they  can  onely  tumble,  and  dance  upon  the 
rope,  you  shall  see  'um  after  dinner.  Let's  away  sweet-heart, 
the  Parson  stays  for  us,  he  has  blown  his  fingers  this  hour. 

{Exeunt  Blade  and  the  fVidtw. 

Dog,  I'm  glad  the  Captain's  gone,  now  will  I  sneak  away, 
like  one  that  has  stolen  a  silver-spoone. 

Pun.     I'll  be  your  man  and  follow  you. 

IVil.  Who  are  these  John  ?  By  your  leave.  Sir ;  would 
you  speak  with  any  here  ? 

Dog.  The  Captain,  Sir.  But  I'll  take  some  other  time  to 
wait  on  him,  my  occasions  call  me  now. 

fVil.  Nay,  pray.  Sir,  stay.  Whom  did  you  say  you  would 
speak  withall  P 

Dog.  The  Captain,  Sir.  But  another  time  will  serve.  I 
ha'  some  haste  of  business. 

Will.     Whom  would  he  speak  with,  John  ?     I  forget  still. 

yoh.     The  Captain  Sir. 

Will.     Captain  ?     What  Captain  Sir  ? 

Dog.     Your  brother  I  suppose  he  is. 

Will.  'Tis  true  indeed,  I  had  forgot  that  my  brother  was  a 
Captain.  I  cry  you  mercy.  Sir,  he'll  be  here  presently.  Are 
you  an  English-man,  Sir  ? 

Dog.     Yes,  Sir. 

234 


THE   GUARDIAN 

ff^ilL     Where  were  you  born  I  pray  ? 

Dog.     In  London,  Sir.     I  must  leave  you — 

fVilL  In  London?  y*are  an  English-man  then  I  see,  Sir. 
Would  you  have  spoke  with  me  Sir? 

Dog.  No,  with  your  brother,  but  my  business  with  him 
requires  not  haste,  and  therefore — 

fVill.  You're  not  in  haste  you  say;  pray  sit  down  then: 
may  I  crave  your  name.  Sir  ? 

Dog.  My  name's  not  worth  your  knowled[g]e.  Sir ;  but  my 
mans  name  s  John. 

Pun.  (If  I  be  John  any  more  I'll  be  hang'd)  No  my  name's 
Timothyy  Sir. 

ff^il/.  Mr.  John  Timothy  ?  Very  well.  Sir.  You  seem  to 
Be  a  Travellor. 

Dog.  We're  newly  come  out  of  AfiFrick,  and  therefore  have 
some  business  that  requires  us. 

ff^i/L  Of  Affrick  ?  Law  you  there  now.  What  Country 
pray? 

Dog.     Pnstir  John*s  Country.     Fare  you  well.  Sir,  now. 

ff^i/L  Marry  God  forbid.  What  come  from  Prester  John^ 
and  we  not  drink  a  cup  of  Sack  together  ? 

Dog.  (What  shall  I  do?)  Friend,  shall  I  trouble  you  to 
shew  me  where  your  house  of  office  is  ? 

fVilL     You'll  stay  here  Mr. — what's  your  name,  pray? 

Pun.     Timothy^  Sir. 

fVilL     Gods  me,  'tis  true  indeed  Mr.  John  Timothy. 

Pun.     I'll  only  make  water,  and  come  to  you. 

Joh.  The  door.  Sir,  is  lockt ;  the  Captain  has  lockt  us  adl  in 
here,  if  you'll  be  pleas'd  to  stay,  Sir,  till  he  comes — 

Dog.     (I'd  as  live  stay  to  meet  the  Devil,  or  a  Sargeant.) 

Pun.  (Would  I  were  hid  like  maggot  in  a  pescod ;  we  shall 
be  abused  I  see,  oh,  oh,  oh,) 

Job.     What  maJces  you  quake  so,  Sir? 

run.  Nothing,  onely  I  have  an  extream  list  to  make  water : 
Tis  nothing  else  by  this  light. 

ff^ill.  My  brother  would  not  have  you  gone  it  seems. 
Your  names  Mr.  John  Timothy^  is  it  ? 

Dog.     No,  that's  my  mans  name. 

fVilL  O,  your  mans  name ;  'tis  true,  'tis  ve[r]y  true  indeed, 
that's  your  man's  name.     You'll  pardon  me.  Sir  ? 

23s 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Joh.  Pray,  friend,  do  you  know  the  great  City  call'd  Ast^- 
vadil,  where  my  name-sake  PrisUr^John^kteps  his  Court  ? 

Pun.  Know't?  I,  very  well;  I  have  liv'd  there  a  great 
while,  I  have  cause  to  know't. 

Job.     Ther's  a  brave  Castle  of  three  miles  long. 

Pun.     I,  and  many  stately  building  too. 

yob.     The  noble  mens  houses  are  all  built  of  Marble. 

Fun.     They  make  indeed  a  glorious  show.     I  ha'  seen  'um. 

Job.  It  may  be  so.  But  to  my  knowledg,  friend,  there  is 
no  such  City  there. 

Pun.  It  may  be  the  names  are  alter'd  since  I  was  there. 
(Here's  the  Captain,  I'll  sneak  behind  the  hangings.) 

AS.   5.     Scaen.   10. 

Dogrely  Punyj  JVillianiy  Jobn^  Bladiy  ff^idow. 

Bla.  I  like  this  Person  well,  h'  has  made  short  work  on't, 
he  had  appointed  sure  some  mcc[t]ing  at  an  Ale-house.  Wel- 
come wife,  welcome  home  now.  But  I  ha'  two  brethren 
which  you  must  know. 

fVid.     Marry,  Heav'ns  foresheild,  Sir. 

Bla.  Brethren  in  God  sweet-heart,  no  otherwise.  Come 
hither  Guiny  brother ;  what  say  you  ? 

fVilL  This  Gentleman,  Brother,  has  stay'd  for  you  here; 
pray  use  him  kindly,  he's  a  Traveller :  where  did  you  say  you 
traveU'd,  Sir  ? 

Bla.     O  yes  !     How  do  you,  brother  ? 

Dog.     I  your  brother  ?  what  d'ye  mean  ? 

Bla.  Why,  are  not  you  my  brother  Blade  that  was  taken 
captive  by  the  Tartars  r     Ha  f 

Dog.  You're  merrily  dispos'd.  Sir :  I  your  brother !  I  taken 
captive  by  the  Tartars !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  understand  not  your 
meaning.  Sir. 

Bla.  What  an  impudent  slave's  this  I  Sirrah  monster, 
didst  not  thou  come  with  thy  man  John  ? 

Dog.  I,  my  man  Jobn?  here's  no  such  fellow  here,  you 
see :  how  you're  mistaken.  Sir  !  you  mean  some  other  man. 
This  is  the  strangest  humour. 

236 


THE  GUARDIAN 

Bla.  Sirrah,  dost  thou  see  this  fist  ?  dost  thou  see  this  foot  ? 
ril  wear  these  out  upon  thee — 

Dog.  Hold,  pray  Sir,  hold.  I  remember  now  indeed  that  I 
was  Bladi  the  Merchant;  but  I  had  quite  forgot  it.  You 
must  pardon  me ;  my  memory's  very  weak. 

Bla.  I  like  the  hiunour.  But  I  must  know,  Sir,  who  you 
are,  now  you  ha'  left  being  my  brother. 

Dog.  Who,  I  ?  don't  you  know  me  ?  I'm  Dogrel  the  Poet, 
and  Puny  was  my  man  John.  Lord  that  you  should  not  know 
me  all  this  while  I  not  know  Poet  Dognl! 

Why  I  intended  here  this  merry  play, 
To  solemnize  your  nuptial-day. 

Wid.  O  thank  you,  M.  Dogrel 'y  Can  you  dance  upon  the 
ropes,  and  tumble  ?     Truely  I  never  knew  it  before,  not  I. 

Bla.     Where's  that  fool.  Puny  ?    Is  he  slipt  away  ? 

Pun.     (He  was  wise  enough  to  do  so,  I'll  warrant  you.) 

Bla.  I  will  beat  him  so,  that  he  shall  not  finde  a  similitude 
for  himself.  As  for  you,  Dogrely  because  you  came  ofiF  pretty 
handsomely,  with  the  best  at  the  last,  like  an  Epigram,  I  may 
chance  to  pardon  you ;  but  upon  this  condition,  that  you  make 
no  Epithalamiums  upon  my  marriage. 

Well  said,  Wtll\  bravely  done,  IVUI\  i'  fiiith     u  *.  n 
thou  shalt  ha'  two  laces  more  to  thy  Livery,  for      ^F- 
doing  this  so  well.     I  told  thee,  Willy  what  'twas     ^'  ^ 
to  have  a6ted  the  Bear  in  Mundorus.    And  Ralph        ^ 
was  a  brave  John  too— 

Dog.  How's  this  ?  I  plainly  see  I'm  an  Ass  then :  'twas 
this  damn'd  Puny^s  fearfiilness  spoil'd  all. 

Pun.  (A  pox  o'  this  coward  Dogrel:  I  thought  they  were 
not  the  right  ones.) 

Bla.  1  see  my  Players  had  more  wit  then  my  Poet.  Here's 
something  for  you  to  drink.  Go  in  now :  this  is  your  Cue  of 
Exit ;  and  see  all  things  there  in  a  readiness. 

Will.     Nay,  let  the  Master  go  first.     Follow  me,  John. 

Exeunt  Will,  and  Ralph. 

Wid.  What,  husband  ?  Ha'  you  giv'n  'um  any  thing  ? 
Indeed,  Love,  you're  too  lavish. 

Dog.     'Twas  very  wittily  put  ofiF  o'  me,  howsoever. 


237 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 


Aa 


Scjen. 


Bladi,  IVidaw,  Dogrel,  Puny,  Culter,  and  Taiyiha, 
with  Fidltrs  hefirt  'urn. 


low  ?  what  ha'  we  here  ?  another  Puppet-play  } 

but  brothers,  and  I'm  for  'um.    Who  ?  Cutter? 
:er,  Poet  ?    Come,  what  device  is  this  ?  iike  one 


Bla.  How 
Any  thing  no\ 
What's  the  mi 
o'  yours  ? 

Cut.     Stay  at  the  door,  ye  sempiternal  squeakers.     Come, 

Tab.     Lord,  I'm  so  weary  with  dancing  as  passes.    Yondcr*B 

my  mother.  Oh  mother !  what  d'ye  think  I  ha'  been  doing 
to  day  ? 

md     Why  what,  childe 

Tab.  Nay  nothing:  I  have  onely  been  married  a  little;  and 
my  husband  and  I  ha'  so  danced  it  since  ! 

Cat.  Brave  Tabytha  still  !  Never  be  angry.  Widow  ;  you 
know  where  Marriages  are  made.  How  now,  Captain  ?  If  I 
turn  Tapster  now,  'twill  be  happie  for  you;  for  I  shall  be  rich 
enough  to  trust  you,  Captain. 

IVid.  'Twas  Gods  will,  I  see,  and  therefore  there's  no 
resisting.  But  what  d'ye  mean,  son  ?  I  hope  you'll  not  turn 
swaggerer  ? 

Cut.  Tis  for  special  reasons,  gentle  mother.  Why  how 
now,  Dagrtl?  M.  Blade  the  Merchant  looks  as  if  he  were 
broke:    he  has  turn'd  away  his  servant  too. 

Tab.  Who  "s  that  ?  M,  Dagrtl  i'  these  Players  clothes  ? 
Can  M.  Dagrel  dance  too,  husband  f 

Bla.     Prithee,  Cutter^  what  hath  exalted  Tabytha  thus? 

Cut.  What?  this  good  fortune  she  has  got  by  me:  You 
know  what  a  dull  creature  she  was  before  ;  her  soul  was  in  her 
body,  like  butter  in  a  hot  cake  ;  now  she's  as  full  of  Spirits  as 
HeD  it  self.  My  counsel  and  two  cups  o'  Sack,  have  wrought 
this  miracle. 


THE   GUARDIAN 


Aa. 


Scaen.    1 2. 


To  these,  Truman  Pater,  Truman  Filius,  Lucia  veil'd. 

Tru.  p.     Well  said  !     You  arc  joyn'd  then  now,  my  blessing 
on  you   both ;  come  in  to  your  father  Blade.     Nay,  daughte 


f 


Aure/ia,   off   with    your 
married  here  ? 

Tru.  f.     I  Itnow  not,  Sir. 

Church. 

B/a.     This  is  my  daught 
Ho!     yfureliai 


Whom    ha'    you 


She  was  Auntia  when  \ 


Where's  the   wench  ? 


Aft.   5.     Scsen.    13. 

To  them,  Aurelia. 

Aur.     Here,  Sir. 

Bia.      Here,   Sir?     Why  do  you  make  your   husband    lead 
your  maid  in  thus? 

Aur.     My  husband,  Sir  ? 

Bla.     Why,  huswife  is  n 

Aur.     No,  by  my  troth, 

Tru.   p.     These    are    fini 
Sirrah,  how  durst  you  Sir 


■  husband  ? 


what's  that  ? 

)t  Mr.    Truman  ya 

Mf,  I  thank  God. 

tricks;     delicate,    dainty    tricks. 

rah  ? — and  for  your  minion — marry 


come  up,  marry  a  Chamber-maid  ?  Well,  Captain,  this  was 
your  plotting.  You  said  indeed  you'd  make  a  telhron  o'  me  :  y' 
ha'  don't  indeed ;  I  thank  you,  Captain  Blade,  'tis  well.  Out 
o'  my  sight.  Sir,  with  your  minion  there,  I  say  out  o'  my  sight. 
Ha  !  am  I  fool'd  thus?  I  shall  make  some  repent  it,  I  hold  a 
groat  c  on't. 

Bla.     D'ye  hear,  Mr.   Truman — 

Tru.  p.  Yes,  Sir,  I  do  hear ;  and  I  will  not  hear  if  it  please 
me,  Sir ;  but  some  body  shall  hear  o'  this  Captain.  But, 
Captain,  you're  deceived,  this  is  not  a  lawful  marriage. 

Luc.  Pray,  hear  me  all ;  for  I  shall  tell  those  things 
That  will  appease  your  wrath,  and  move  your  wonder. 
I've  married  Truman,  and  I  will  enjoy  him, 

2^9 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  he  wiU  love  me,  I  am  sure  he  will; 
For  I  am  Lucia,  the  much  injure'd  Liuia. 

Omn.     Ha ! 

Ltu.     The  habit  of  a  servant  I  put  on, 
That  I  might  findc  who  'twas  I  ought  to  pardon, 
For  all  the  wrongs  done  to  me.     I  nave  found  it, 
Cosen,  ^ou  know  I  have,  and  I  forgive  'um. 

Aur,    Then  all  m^  plots  are  spoii'd.     Pardon  me,  Cousin: 
And,  Mr.   Truman,  know  you  have  a  wife 
That  is  as  pure  and  innocent  as  the  thoughts 
Of  dying  Saints  ?     'Twas  I  that  with  the  veile 
Deceiv'd  you  in  the  Prison  ;  it  was  I, 
Who  in  that  veile  contrafted  my  self  to  Puny. 
Forgive  me  both  ;  I  do  confess  I've  wrong'd  you. 
But  Heav'n  has  seen  you  righted. 

Tru.  f.     O  this  blest  hour  1 
What  shall  I  say  ?   I  know  thou  art  all  goodness, 
But  canst  thou  pardon,  Luda,  that  great  sin, 
That  high  and  mighty  sin  which  I  have  done 
In  doubting  of  thy  faith  i     I  fear  thou  canst  not. 

Luc.     I  do  desire  no  more  then  that  I  may, 
Deserve  your  better  opinion,  Sir,  hereafter. 
And  uncle  for  your  poyson — 

Bia.     Speak  no  more  of  it, 
I  do  confess  it,  Necce;    and  shall  most  willingly 
Surrender  up  the  charge  of  your  Estate. 
It  hath  pleas'd  Heav'n  to  restore  me  mine  own 
By  marriage  with  this  Widow. 

Tru.  p.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  To  see  how  things  are  come  about ! 
I  thought  Did  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  marry  one  that 
he  knew  not.  He  knew  her  well  enough,  I'll  warrant  you. 
How  do  you,  Capuin  ?  I  was  somewhat  rash :  I'm  an  old 
man,  alas. 

Bia.     Cutler,  and  M.  Dugrel,  you  that  sneak  there ; 
You're  precious  witnesses.     But  no  more  o'  that. 
You  have  been  to  blame,  Aurelia.     But  'tis  past. 
We  want  your  husband  here :  Where's  Puny  ? 

Pun.    (I'll  venture  out  amongst  'um.)  Enter  Puny. 

Nay  ne'er  laugh  at  me ;   I  know  I  look  tike  a  door  without 
hinges.     A  pox  upon  you,  Dogrel  j  are  you  there  \ 
240 


THE   GUARDIAN 

Bla.     What  ?  mjr  son  yohn  ?  d'ye  know  this  Gentlewoman  ? 

Aur.     D*ye  know  this  piece  of  gold,  Sir,  which  you  broke  ? 

Pun.  Hum  ?  Yes  '&ith,  'tis  the  same :  thou  art  my  Cynthioy 
wench,  my  Endymtoni  we'll  be  married  presently.  O  for  a 
witty  Parson  to  marry  us  two  Wits ! 

Dog.  'Slife,  one,  two,  three,  i'faith  four  matches  here  at 
one  time  1  What  accursed  fortune's  this  !  there's  three  feasts 
lost :  they'll  dine  all  together. 

Pun,  I  will  not  kiss  thee,  my  little  magazine,  till  I  have 
washt  my  face.     Ha,  M.  Dogrely  hast  thou  got  no  Spouse  too  ? 

Dog.     The  thrice  three  Sisters  are  my  wives. 

Pun.  Well,  because  thou  art  a  Poet,  and  my  Jews-trump 
and  I  are  Wits,  thou  shalt  eat  and  drink  at  my  pavilion  always. 

j/ur.  You  shall  ha*  wine  and  serge.  D'ye  remember, 
Dogrelf 

Dog.     Thank  you:    but  I'll  ne'er  lye  for  you  again. 

Bla.     Come,  let's  all  in  to  dinner. 


C  II. 


X\\ 


The  Epilogue. 


THe  Play  is  done^  great  Princey  which  needs  must  fiar^ 
Though  you  brought  all  your  fathers  mercies  ben^ 
It  may  offend  your  Highness^  and  we^ve  now 
Three  hours  done  treason  herey  for  ought  we  know. 
But  pow^r  your  Grace  can  above  Nature  give ; 
//  can  give  pow^r  to  make  abortives  live. 
In  which  if  our  bold  wishes  should  be  crosty 
*Tis  but  the  life  of  one  poor  week  thai*s  lost. 
Though  it  should  fall  beneath  your  present  scorny 
It  could  not  die  sooner  then  it  was  born. 


FINIS. 


242 


PROPOSITION 

For  the 
ADVANCEMENT 

Of 

EXPERIMENTAL 

Philosophy. 


By  A.  Cowley. 


[design] 


LONDON, 

Printed  by  J.  M.  for  Henry  Htrringman ;   and  are  to  be 

sold  at  his  Shop  at  the  Sign  of  the  Blew-Aiuhor  in  the 

Lower- Walk  of  the  New-Exchange,  1661. 


To  the  Honourable  Society  for  the 
Advancement  of  Experimental 
Philosophy. 

THe  Author  of  the  following  discourse,  having  since  his 
going  into  France  allowed  me  to  make  it  publick,  I 
thought  I  should  do  it  most  right  by  presenting  it  to  Your 
Considerations;  to  the  end  that  when  it  hath  been  fully 
examin'd  by  You,  and  receiv'd  such  Additions  or  Alterations  as 
You  shall  think  fit,  the  Design  thereof  may  be  promoted  by 
Your  recommending  the  Practice  of  it  to  the  Nation.     I  am, 

Your  most  humble  Servant^ 

P.  P. 


The  Preface. 

ALL  Knowledge  must  either  be  of  Gody  or  of  his  Creatures  j 
that  isy  of  Nature;  the  first  is  called  from  the  Obje£f^ 
Divinity  ;  the  latter^  Natural  Philosophy,  and  is  divided  into  the 
Contemplation  of  the  Immediate  or  Mediate  Creatures  of  God^  that 
iSy  the  Creatures  of  his  Creature  Man,  Of  this  latter  kind  are 
all  Arts  for  the  use  of  Humane  Lifty  which  are  thus  again  divided: 
Some  are  purely  Humane^  or  made  by  Man  alone^  and  as  it  were 
intirely  sfmn  out  of  himself  without  relation  to  other  Creatures^ 
such  are  Grammar  and  Logick,  to  improve  his  Natural  S^ualities 
of  Internal  and  External  speech ;  as  likewise  Rhetorick  and  Poli- 
ticks {or  Law)  to  fulfill  and  exalt  his  Natural  Inclination  to 
Society,  Other  are  mixty  and  are  Mans  Creatures  no  otherwise 
then  by  the  Result  which  he  effe£ls  by  Conjunction  and  Application 
of  the  Creatures  of  God,  Of  these  parts  of  Philosophy  that  which 
treats  of  God  Almighty  {properly  called  Divinity)  which  is  almost 
only  to  be  sought  out  of  his  revealed  willy  and  therefore  requires  only 
the  diligent  and  pious  study  of  that  y  and  of  the  best  Interpreters  upon 
it  5  and  that  part  which  I  call  purely  Humaney  depending  solely 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

upon  Memory  and  ff^ity  that  isy  Reading  and  Invention^  are  both 
excellently  well  provided  for  by  the  Constitution  of  our  Universities, 
But  the  other  two  PartSy  the  Inquisition  into  the  Nature  of  Gods 
CreatureSy  and  the  Application  of  them  to  Humane  Uses  {especially 
the  latter)  seem  to  he  very  slenderly  provided  fory  or  rather  almost 
totally  negle£ledy  except  onely  some  small  assistances  to  Physicky  and  the 
Mathematicks,  And  therefore  the  Founders  of  our  Colledges  have 
taken  ample  care  to  supply  the  Students  with  multitude  ofBooksy  and 
to  appoint  Tutors  and  frequent  ExerciseSy  the  one  to  interprety  and 
the  other  to  confirm  their  Readingy  as  also  to  afford  them  sufficient 
plenty  and  leisure  for  the  opportunities  of  their  private  studyy  that 
the  Beams  which  they  receive  by  Le£fure  may  be  doubled  by  RefleC' 
tions  of  their  own  Wit :  But  towards  the  Observation  and  Appli- 
1'  cationy  as  I  saidy  of  the  Creatures  themsehesy  they  have  allowed  no 
■  InstrumentSy  Materialsy  or  Conveniences,  Partly^  because  the 
necessary  expence  thereof  is  much  greater y  then  of  the  other ;  and 
partly  from  that  idle  and  pernicious  opinion  which  had  long  possest 
the  fVorldy  that  all  things  to  be  searcht  in  NaturCy  had  been  already 
found  and  discovered  by  the  AncientSy  and  that  it  were  a  folly  to 
travel  about  for  that  which  others  had  before  brought  home  to  us. 
And  the  great  Importer  of  all  Truths  they  took  to  be  Aristotle,  as  if 
{as  Macrobius  speaks  foolishly  of  Hippocrates)  he  could  neither 
deceive  nor  be  deceivedy  or  as  if  there  had  been  not  only  no  lies 
in  himy  but  all  f^erities,  O  true  Philosophers  in  one  sence!  and 
contented  with  a  very  Little!  Not  that  I  would  disparage  the 
admirable  IVity  and  worthy  labours  of  many  of  the  AncientSy  much 
less  0/*  Aristotle,  the  most  eminent  among  them ;  but  it  were  madness 
to  imagine  that  the  Cisterns  of  men  should  afford  us  as  muchj  and  as 
wholesome  IVaterSy  as  the  Fountains  of  Nature.  As  we  understand 
the  manners  of  men  by  conversation  among  themy  and  not  by  reeuling 
RomanceSy  the  same  is  our  case  in  the  true  Apprehension  bf  yudge- 
ment  of  Things.  And  no  man  can  hope  to  make  himself  as  rich  by 
stealing  out  of  others  Truncksy  as  he  might  by  opening  and  digging  of 
new  Mines.  If  he  conceive  that  all  are  already  exhausted^  Ut  him 
consider  that  many  lazily  thought  so  hundred  years  agOy  and  yet 
nevertheless  since  that  time  whole  Regions  of  Art  have  been  dis- 
coveredy  which  the  Ancients  as  little  dreamt  of  as  they  did  of 
America.  There  is  yet  many  a  Terra  Incognita  behind  to  exerdst 
our  diligenccy  and  let  us  exercise  it  never  so  muchy  we  shall  leave 
work  enough  too  for  our  Posterity. 

246 


THE   PREFACE 

This  therefore  being  laid  down  as  a  certain  Foundationy  that  we 
must  not  content  our  selves  with  that  Inheritance  of  Knowledge  which 
is  left  us  by  the  labour  and  bounty  of  our  Ancestors^  but  seek  to 
improve  those  very  grounds^  and  adae  to  them  new  and  greater 
Purchases ;  it  remains  to  be  considered  by  what  means  we  are  most 
likely  to  attain  the  ends  of  this  vertuous  Covetousness. 

And  certainly  the  solitary  and  unaSfive  Contemplation  of  Nature ^ 
hy  the  most  ingenious  Persons  living^  in  their  own  private  Studies^ 
can  never  effe£l  it.     Our  Reasoning  Faculty  as  well  as  Fancy^  do'^{ 
hut  Dreanij  when  it  is  not  guided  by  sensible  Obje^s.     ff^e  shall  \ 
confound  where  Nature  has  divided^  and  divide  where  Nature  has 
compounded^  and  create  nothing  but  either  Deformed  Monsters^  or  at 
best  pretty  but  impossible  Mermaids.    *Tis  like  Painting  by  Memory 
and  Imagination  which  can  never  produce  a  PiSfure  to  the  Life^ 
Many  Persons   of  admirable  abilities   {if  they  had  been   wisely 
managed  and  profitably  employed)  have  spent  their  whole  time  and 
diligence  in  commentating  upon  Aristotles  Philosophy^  who  could 
never  go  beyond  him^  because  their  design  was  only  to  follow^  not 
grasp^  or  lay  hold  on^  or  so  much  as  touch  Nature^  because  they  catcht 
only  at  the  shadow  of  her  in  their  own  Brains,     And  therefore  we 
see  that  for  above  a  thousand  years  together  nothing  almost  of  Orna^ 
ment  or  Advantage  was  added  to  the    Uses  of  Humane  Societju 
except  only  Guns  and  Printing^  whereas  since  the  Industry  of  Merr\ 
has  ventured  to  go  abroad^  out  of  Books  and  out  of  Themselves^  and  I 
to  work  among  Gods  Creatures^  instead  of  Playing  among  their 
OwHy  every  age  has  abounded  with  excellent  Inventions^  and  every 
yeetr  perhaps  might  do  so,  if  a  considerable  number  of  sele£l  Persons 
were  set  apart,  and  well  directed,  and  plentifully  provided  for  the^ 
search  of  them.     But  our  Universities  having  been  founded  in  those 
firmer  times  that  I  complain  of  it  is  no  wonder  if  they  be  defeSiive 
in  their  Constitution  as  to  this  way  of  Learning,  which  was  not 
tben  thought  on. 

For  the  supplying  of  which  Defeat,  it  is  humbly  proposed  to  his 
Sacred  Majesty,  his  most  Honourable  Parliament,  and  Privy 
Council,  and  to  all  such  of  his  SubjeSfs  as  are  willing  and  able  to 
contribute  any  thing  towards  the  advancement  of  real  and  useful 
Learning,  that  by  their  Authority,  Encouragement,  Patronage,  and 
Bounty,  a  Philosophical  CoUedge  may  be  erected,  after  this  ensuing, 
or  some  such  like  Model. 


247 


The  Colledge. 


THat  the  Phitosophical  Colledge  be  scituated  within  one, 
two,  or  (at  farthest)  three  miles  of  Lond[o]nj  and,  if  it  be 
possible  to  find  that  convenience,  upon  the  side  of  the  River,  or 
very  near  it. 

That  the  Revenue  of  this  Colledge  amount  to  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year. 

That  the  Company  received  into  it  be  as  follows. 

I.  Twenty  Philosophers  or  Professors.  2.  Sixteen  young 
Scholars,  Servants  to  the  Professors.  3.  A  Chaplain,  4.  A 
Baily  for  the  Revenue.  5.  A  Manciple  or  Purveyour  for  the 
provisions  of  the  House.  6.  Two  Gardeners.  7.  A  Master- 
Cook.  8.  An  Under-Cook.  9.  A  Butler.  10.  An  Under- 
Butler.  II.  A  Chirurgeon.  12.  Two  Lungs,  or  Chymical 
Servants.  13.  A  Library-keeper  who  is  likewise  to  be  Apothe- 
cary, Druggist,  and  Keeper  of  Instruments,  Engines,  &r. 
14.  An  Officer  to  feed  and  take  care  of  all  Beasts,  Fowl,  Wc. 
kept  by  the  Colledge.  1 5.  A  Groom  of  the  Stable.  16.  A  Mes- 
senger to  send  up  and  down  for  all  uses  of  the  Colledge. 
17.  Four  old  Women,  to  tend  the  Chambers,  keep  the  House 
clean,  and  such  like  services. 

That  the  annual  allowance  for  this  Company  be  as  follows. 
I,  To  every  Professor,  and  to  the  Chaplain,  one  hundred  and 
twenty  Pounds.  2.  To  the  sixteen  Scholars  20*  a  piece,  10* 
for  their  diet,  and  10'  for  their  Entertainment.  3.  To  the 
Baily  30*  besides  allowance  for  his  Journeys.  4.  To  the  Pur- 
veyour or  Manciple  thirty  pounds.  5.  To  each  of  the  Gar- 
deners twenty  Pounds.  6.  To  the  Master-Cook  twenty 
Pounds.  7.  To  the  Under-Cook  four  Pounds.  8.  To  the 
Butler  ten  Pounds.  9.  To  the  Under-Butler  four  Pounds. 
10.  To  the  Chirurgeon  thirty  Pounds.  11.  To  the  Library- 
Keeper  thirty  Pounds.  12.  To  each  of  the  Lungs  twelve 
Pounds.  13.  To  the  Keeper  of  the  Beasts  six  Pounds.  14. 
To  the  Groom  five  Pounds.  15.  To  the  Messenger  twelve 
Pounds.  16.  To  the  four  necessary  Women  ten  Pounds. 
For  the  Manciples  Table  at  which  all  the  Servants  of  the 

248 


THE   COLLEDGE 

House  arc  to  eat,  except  the  Scholars,  one  hundred  sixty 
Pounds.  For  3  Horses  for  the  Service  of  the  Colledgc,  thirty 
Pounds. 

All  which  amounts  to  three  thousand  two  hundred  eighty 
five  Pounds.  So  that  there  remains  for  keeping  of  the  House 
and  Gardens,  and  Operatories,  and  Instruments,  and  Animals, 
and  Experiments  of  all  sorts,  and  al!  other  expcnces,  seven 
hundred  Sc  6ftccn  Pounds. 

Which  were  a  very  inconsiderable  sum  for  the  great  uses  to 
which  it  is  designed,  but  that  J  conceive  the  Industry  of  the 
Cotlcdge  will  in  a  short  time  so  enrich  it  self  as  10  get  a  far 
better  Stock  for  the  advance  and  cnlargemeni  of  the  work  when 
it  is  once  begun  ;  neither  is  the  continuance  of  particular  mens 
liberality  to  be  despaired  of,  when  it  shall  be  encouraged  by  the 
sight  of  that  publick  benefit  which  will  accrue  to  ail  Mankind, 
and  chiefly  to  our  Nation,  by  this  Foundation.  Something 
likewise  will  arise  from  Leases  and  other  Casualties;  that 
nothing  of  which  may  be  diverted  to  the  private  gain  of  the 
Professors,  or  any  other  use  besides  that  of  the  search  of  Nature, 
and  by  it  the  general  good  of  the  world,  and  that  care  may  be 
taken  for  the  certain  performance  of  all  things  ordained  by  the 
Institution,  as  likewise  for  the  proteiftion  and  encouragement  of 
the  Company,  it  is  proposed. 

That  some  Person  ofEminentQiiality.a  Lover  of  solid  Learn- 
ing, and  no  Stranger  in  it,  be  chosen  Chancellour  or  President 
of  the  Colledge,  and  that  eight  Governours  more,  men  qualified 
in  the  like  manner,  be  joyned  with  him,  two  of  which  shall 
yearly  be  appointed  Visitors  of  the  Colledge,  and  receive  an 
exst&  account  of  all  expences  even  to  the  smallest,  and  of  the 
true  estate  of  their  publick  Treasure,  under  the  hands  and  oaths 
of  the  Professors  Resident. 

That  the  choice  of  the  Professors  in  any  vacancy  belong  to 
the  Chancellour  and  the  Governours,  but  that  the  Professors 
(who  are  likeliest  to  know  what  men  of  the  Nation  are  most 
proper  for  the  duties  of  their  Society)  dire<ft  their  choice  by 
recommending  two  or  three  persons  to  them  at  every  Eleftion. 
And  that  if  any  learned  Person  within  his  Majesties  Dominions 
discover  or  eminently  improve  any  useful  kind  of  knowledge, 
he  nnay  upon  that  ground  for  his  reward  and  the  encouragement 
of  others,  be  prcferr'd,  if  he  pretend  to  the  place,  before  any 
body  else. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

That  the  Governours  have  power  to  turn  out  any  Profeisor 
who  shall  be  proved  to  be  either  scandalous  or  unprofitable  to 
the  Society. 

That  the  Colledge  be  built  after  this,  or  some  such  manner: 
That  it  consist  of  three  fair  Quadrangular  Courts,  and  three 
large  grounds,  enclosed  with  good  walls  behind  them.  That 
the  first  Court  be  built  with  a  fair  Cloyster,  and  the  Professors 
Lodgings  or  rather  little  Houses,  four  on  each  side  at  some 
distance  from  one  another,  and  with  little  Gardens  behind 
them,  just  after  the  manner  of  the  Chartreux  beyond  Sea. 
That  the  inside  of  the  Cloyster  be  lined  with  a  Gravel-walk, 
and  that  walk  with  a  row  of  Trees,  and  that  in  the  middle 
there  be  a  Parterre  of  Flowers,  and  a  Fountain. 

That  the  second  Quadrangle  just  behind  the  first,  be  so 
contrived,  as  to  contain  these  parts,  i.  A  Chappel.  2.  A 
Hall  with  two  long  Tables  on  each  side  for  the  Scholars  and 
Officers  of  the  House  to  eat  at,  and  with  a  Pulpit  and  Forms  at 
the  end  for  the  publick  Lectures.  3.  A  large  and  pleasant 
Dining-Room  within  the  Hall  for  the  Professors  to  eat  in,  and 
to  hold  their  Assemblies  and  Conferences.  4.  A  publick 
School-house.  5.  A  Library.  6.  A  Gallery  to  walk  in, 
adorned  with  the  Pidlures  or  Statues  of  all  the  Inventors  of  any 
thing  useful  to  Humane  Life ;  as  Printing,  Guns,  AmericOy  i^c. 
and  of  late  in  Anatomy,  the  "Circulation  of  the  Blood,  the 
Milky  Veins,  and  such  like  discoveries  in  any  Art,  with  short 
Elogies  under  the  Portraitures :  As  likewise  the  Figures  of  all 
sorts  of  Creatures,  and  the  stuft  skins  of  as  many  strange 
Animals  as  can  be  gotten.  7.  An  Anatomy  Chamber  adom«i 
with  Skeletons  and  Anatomical  Pidlures,  and  prepared  with  all 
conveniences  for  Dissection.  8.  A  Chamber  for  all  manner  of 
Druggs,  and  Apothecaries  Materials.  9.  A  Mathematical 
Chamber  fiirnisht  with  all  sorts  of  Mathematical  Instruments, 
being  an  Appendix  to  the  Library.  10.  Lodgings  for  the 
Chaplain,  Chirurgeon,  Library- Keeper  and  Purveyour,  near  the 
Chappel,  Anatomy  Chamber,  Library  and  Hall. 

That  the  third  Court  be  on  one  side  of  these,  very  large, 
but  meanly  built,  being  designed  only  for  use  and  not  for 
beauty  too,  as  the  others.  That  it  contain  the  Kitchin,  But- 
teries, Brew-house,  Bake-house,  Dairy,  Lardry,  Stables,  &c.  and 
especially  great  Laboratories  for  Chymical  Operations,  and 
Lodgings  for  the  Under-servants. 

250 


THE  COLLEDGE 

That  behind  the  second  Court  be  placed  the  Garden,  con- 
taining all  sorts  of  Plants  that  our  Soil  will  bear,  and  at  the  end 
a  little  House  of  pleasure,  a  Lodge  for  the  Gardener,  and  a 
Grove  of  Trees  cut  out  into  Walks. 

That  the  second  enclosed  ground  be  a  Garden,  destined 
only  to  the  tryal  of  all  manner  of  Experiments  concerning 
Plants,  as  their  Melioration,  Acceleration,  Retardation,  Conser- 
vation, Composition,  Transmutation,  Coloration,  or  whatsoever 
else  can  be  produced  by  Art  either  for  use  or  curiosity,  with  a 
Lodge  in  it  for  the  Gardener. 

That  the  third  Ground  be  employed  in  convenient  Recep- 
tacles for  all  sorts  of  Creatures  which  the  Professors  shall  judge 
necessary  for  their  more  exa£t  search  into  the  nature  of  Animals, 
and  the  improvement  of  their  Uses  to  us. 

That  there  be  likewise  built  in  some  place  of  the  CoUedge 
where  it  may  serve  most  for  Ornament  of  the  whole,  a  very 
high  Tower  for  observation  of  Celestial  Bodies,  adorned  with 
all  sorts  of  Dyals  and  such  like  Curiosities ;  and  that  there  be 
very  deep  Vaults  made  under  ground,  for  Experiments  most 
proper  to  such  places,  which  will  be  undoubtedly  very  many. 

Much  might  be  added,  but  truly  I  am  afraid  this  is  too 
much  already  for  the  chanty  or  generosity  of  this  age  to  extend 
to ;  and  we  do  not  design  this  after  the  Model  of  Solomons 
House  in  my  Lord  Bacon  (which  is  a  Projeft  for  Experiments 
that  can  never  be  Experimented)  but  propose  it  within  such 
bounds  of  Expence  as  have  often  been  exceeded  by  the  Build- 
ings of  private  Citizens. 


Of  the  Professors^  Scholars^  Chaplain^  and 

other  Officers. 

THat  of  the  twenty  Professors  four  be  always  travelling 
beyond  Seas,  and  sixteen  always  Resident,  unless  by  per- 
mission upon  extraordinary  occasions,  and  every  one  so  absent, 
leaving  a  Deputy  behind  him  to  supply  his  Duties. 

That  the  four  Professors  Itinerant  be  assigned  to  the  four 
psuts  of  the  World,  Europe^  Asioy  Afrique^  and  Americay  there 

251 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

to  reside  three  years  at  least,  and  to  give  a  constant  account  of 
all  things  that  belong  to  the  Learning,  and  especially  Natural 
Experimental  Philosophy  of  those  parts. 

That  the  expence  of  all  Dispatches,  and  all  Books,  Simples, 
Animals,  Stones,  Metals,  Minerals,  £2fr.  and  all  curiosities  what- 
soever, natural  or  artificial,  sent  by  them  to  the  Colledee,  shall 
be  defrayed  out  of  the  Treasury,  and  an  additional  allowance 
(above  the  120')  made  to  them  as  soon  as  the  CoUedges 
Revenue  shall  be  improved. 

That  at  their  going  abroad  they  shall  take  a  solemn  Oath 
never  to  write  any  thing  to  the  CoIIedge,  but  what  after  very 
diligent  Examination,  they  shall  fully  believe  to  be  true,  and  to 
confess  and  recant  it  as  soon  as  they  find  themselves  in  an 
Errour. 

That  the  sixteen  Professors  Resident  shall  be  bound  to 
J  study  and  teach  all  sorts  of  Natural,  Experimental  Philosophy, 
to  consist  of  the  Mathematicks,  Mechanicks,  Medicine,  Ana- 
tomy, Chymistry,  the  History  of  Animals,  Plants,  Minerals, 
Elements,  isfc.  Agriculture,  Architecture,  Art  Military,  Navi- 
gation, Gardening ;  The  Mysteries  of  all  Trades,  and  Improve- 
ment of  them ;  The  Failure  of  all  Merchandizes,  all  Natural 
Magick  or  Divination  ;  and  briefly  all  things  contained  in  the 
Catalogue  of  Natural  Histories  annexed  to  My  Lord  Bacon's 
Organon, 

That  once  a  day  from  Easter  till  Michaelmas^  and  twice  a 
week  from  Michaelmas  to  Easter^  at  the  hours  in  the  afternoon 
most  convenient  for  Auditors  from  London  according  to  the 
time  of  the  year,  there  shall  be  a  Ledlure  read  in  the  Hall,  upon 
such  parts  of  Natural  Experimental  Philosophy,  as  the  Pro- 
fessors shall  agree  on  among  themselves,  and  as  each  of  them 
shall  be  able  to  (>erform  useftiUy  and  honourably. 

That  two  of  the  Professors  by  daily,  weekly,  or  monethly 
turns  shall  teach  the  publick  Schools  according  to  the  Rules 
hereafter  prescribed. 

That  all  the  Professors  shall  be  equal  in  all  respedls  (except 
precedency,  choice  of  Lodging,  and  such  like  priviledees,  which 
shall  belong  to  Seniority  in  the  Colledge)  and  that  all  shall  be 
Masters  and  Treasurers  by  annual  turns,  which  two  0£Scers 
for  the  time  being  shall  take  place  of  all  the  rest,  and  shall  be 
Arbitri  duarum  Mensarum. 

252 


OF  THE  PROFESSORS,  ETC. 

Tliat  the  Master  shall  command  all  the  Officers  of  the  Col- 
ledge,  appoint  Assemblies  or  Conferences  upon  occasion,  and 
preside  in  them  with  a  double  voice,  and  in  his  absence  the 
Treasurer,  whose  business  is  to  receive  and  disburse  all  moneys 
by  the  Masters  order  in  writing,  (if  it  be  an  extraordinary) 
after  consent  of  the  other  Professors. 

That  all  the  Professors  shall  sup  together  in  the  Parlour 
within  the  Hall  every  night,  and  shall  dine  there  twice  a  week 
(to  wit  Sundays  and  Thursdays)  at  two  round  Tables  for  the 
convenience  of  discourse,  which  shall  be  for  the  most  part  of 
such  matters  as  may  improve  their  Studies  and  Professions,  and 
to  keep  them  from  falling  into  loose  or  unprofitable  talk  shall  be 
the  duty  of  the  two  Arbitri  Mensaruniy  who  may  likewise  com- 
mand any  of  the  Servant-Scholars  to  read  to  them  what  he  shall 
think  fit,  whilst  they  are  at  table :  That  it  shall  belong  likewise 
to  the  said  Arbitri  Mensarum  only,  to  invite  Strangers,  which 
they  shall  rarely  do,  unless  they  be  men  of  Learning  or  great 
Parts,  and  shall  not  invite  above  two  at  a  time  to  one  table, 
nothing  being  more  vain  and  unfruitful  then  numerous  Meet- 
ings of  Acquaintance. 

That  the  Professors  Resident  shall  allow  the  CoUedge 
twenty  Pounds  a  year  for  their  Diet,  whether  they  continue 
there  all  the  time  or  not. 

Tliat  they  shall  have  once  a  week  an  Assembly  or  Con- 
ference concerning  the  Afiairs  of  the  CoUedge  and  the  progress 
of  their  Experimental  Philosophy. 

That  if  any  one  find  out  any  thing  which  he  conceives  to 
be  of  consequence,  he  shall  communicate  it  to  the  Assembly  to 
be  examined,  experimented,  approved  or  rejected. 

That  if  anv  one  be  Author  of  an  Invention  that  may  brine 
in  profit,  the  third  part  of  it  shall  belong  to  the  Inventor,  and 
the  two  other  to  the  Society ;  and  besides  if  the  thing  be  very 
considerable,  his  Statue  or  Pidlure  with  an  Elogy  under  it,  shall 
be  placed  in  the  Gallery,  and  made  a  Denison  of  that  Corpo- 
ration of  famous  Men. 

That  all  the  Professors  shall  be  always  assigned  to  some 
particular  Inquisition  (besides  the  ordinary  course  of  their 
Studies)  of  which  they  shall  give  an  account  to  the  Assembly, 
so  that  by  this  means  there  may  be  every  day  some  operation 
or  other  made  in  all  the  Arts,  as  Chymistry,  Anatomy,  Me- 

253 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

chanicks,  and  the  like,  and  that  the  CoUedge  shall  furnish  for 
the  charge  of  the  operation. 

That  there  shall  be  kept  a  Register  under  lock  and  key,  and 
not  to  be  seen  but  by  the  Professors,  of  all  the  Experiments 
that  succeed,  signed  by  the  persons  who  made  the  trysdl. 

That  the  popular  and  received  Errours  in  Experimental 
Philosophy  (with  which,  like  Weeds  in  a  negledled  Garden  it  is 
now  almost  all  overgrown)  shall  be  evinced  by  tryal,  and  taken 
notice  of  in  the  publick  Ledlures,  that  they  may  no  longo^ 
abuse  the  credulous,  and  beget  new  ones  by  consequence  or 
similitude. 

That  every  third  year  (after  the  ftill  settlement  of  the 
Foundation)  the  Colledge  shall  give  an  account  in  Print,  in 

f roper  and  ancient  Latine,  of  the  fruits  of  their  triennial 
ndustry. 

That  every  Professor  Resident  shall  have  his  Scholar  to 
wait  upon  him  in  his  Chamber  and  at  Table,  whom  he  diall 
be  obliged  to  breed  up  in  Natural  Philosophy,  and  render 
an  account  of  his  progress  to  the  Assembly,  from  whose 
Election  he  received  him,  and  therefore  is  responsible  to  it, 
both  for  the  care  of  his  Education,  and  the  just  and  civil  usage 
of  him. 

That  the  Scholar  shall  understand  Latine  very  well,  and  be 
moderately  initiated  in  the  Greek  before  he  be  capable  of  being 
chosen  into  the  Service,  and  that  he  shall  not  remain  in  it 
above  seven  years. 

That  his  Lodging  shall  be  with  the  Professor  whom  he 
serves. 

That  no  Professor  shall  be  a  married  man,  or  a  Divine,  or 
Lawyer  in  praftice,  only  Physick  he  may  be  allowed  to  pre- 
scribe, because  the  study  of  that  Art  is  a  great  part  of  the  duty 
of  his  place,  and  the  duty  of  that  is  so  great,  that  it  will  not 
suffer  him  to  lose  much  time  in  mercenary  pradtice. 

That  the  Professors  shall  in  the  Colledge  wear  the  habit  of 
ordinary  Masters  of  Art  in  the  Universities,  or  of  Doctors,  if 
any  of  them  be  so. 

That  they  shall  all  keep  an  inviolable  and  exemplary  friend- 
ship with  one  another,  and  that  the  Assembly  shall  lay  a  con- 
siderable pecuniary  muldt  upon  any  one  who  shall  be  proved  to 
have  entered  so  far  into  a  quarrel  as  to  give  uncivil  Language  to 

254 


OF  THE   PROFESSORS,   ETC. 

i  Brother-Professor  ;  and  that  the  perseverance  in  any  enmity 
shall  be  punish'd  by  the  Governours  with  expulsion. 

That  the  Chaplain  shall  eat  at  the  Masters  Table,  (paying 
his  twenty  pounds  a  year  as  the  others  do)  and  that  he  shall 
read  Prayers  once  a  day  at  least,  a  little  before  Supper-time ; 
that  he  shall  preach  in  the  Chappel  every  Sunday  Morning,  and 
Catechize  in  the  Aficr-noon  the  Scholars  and  the  School-boys ; 
that  he  shall  every  moneth  administer  the  Holy  Sacrament; 
that  he  shall  not  trouble  himself  and  his  Auditors  with  the 
Controversies  of  Divinity,  but  only  teach  God  in  hlg  just  Com- 
miuidments,  and  in  his  wonderful  Works. 


rbe  Sch[o'\oi. 


THat  the  School  may  be  built  so  as  to  contain  about  two 
hundred  Boys. 

That  it  be  divided  into  four  Classes,  not  as  others  are  ordi- \ 
narily  into  six  or  seven,  because  we  suppose  that  the  Children 
sent  hither  to  be  initialed  in  Things  as  well  as  Words,  ought 
to  have  past  the  two  or  three  first,  and  to  have  attained  the  age  '  I 
of  about  thirteen  years,  being  already  we[l]l  advanced  in  the 
Latine  Grammar,  and  some  Authors.  y* 

That  none,  though  never  so  rich,  shall  pay  any  thing  for 
their  teaching;  and  that  if  any  Professor  shall  be  convicted  to 
have  taken  any  money  in  consideration  of  his  pains  in  the 
School,  he  shall  be  expelled  with  ignominie  by  the  Governours; 
but  if  any  persons  of  great  estate  and  quality,  finding  their 
Sons  much  better  Proficients  in  Learning  here,  then  Boys  of 
the  same  age  commonly  arc  at  other  Schools,  shall  not  think  fit 
to  receive  an  obligation  of  so  near  concernment  without  return- 
ing some  marks  of  acknowledgement,  they  may,  if  they  please 
(for  nothing  is  to  be  demanded)  bestow  some  little  rarity  or 
curiosity  upon  the  Society  in  recompencc  of  their  trouble.  \ 

And  because  it   is  deplorable  to  consider  the   loss  which N 
Children  make  of  their  time  at  most  Schools,  employing,  or 
rather  casting  away  six  or  seven  years  in  the  learning  of  words 
only,  and  that  too  very  Imperfcflly  :  / 

That  a  Method  be  here  established  for  the  infusing  Know- 
nd  Language  at  the  same  time  into  them ;  and  that  this 

2SS 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

may  be  their  Apprenticeship  in  Natural  Philosophy.  This  we 
conceive  may  be  done,  by  breeding  them  up  in  Authors,  or 
pieces  of  Authors,  who  treat  of  some  parts  of  Nature,  and  who 
may  be  understood  with  as  much  ease  and  pleasure,  as  those 
which  are  commonly  taught;  Such  are  in  Latine  f^arroy  Cat$y 
Co/umellay  P/inyy  part  of  Ce/susj  and  of  SenecOy  Cicero  di  Divina^ 
tionty  de  NaturA  Deorurriy  and  several  scattered  pieces,  f^irpFs 
GeorgickSy  GrotiuSy  Ne[m]e5ianuSy  Manilius ;  and  because  the  truth 
is  we  want  good  Poets  (I  mean  we  have  but  few)  who  have 
purposely  treated  of  solid  and  learned,  that  is.  Natural  Matters 
(the  most  part  indulging  to  the  weakness  of  the  world,  and 
feeding  it  either  with  the  follies  of  Love,  or  with  the  Fables  of 
gods  and  Heroes)  we  conceive  that  one  Book  ought  to  be  com- 
piled of  all  the  scattered  little  parcels  among  the  ancient  Poets 
that  might  serve  for  the  advancement  of  Natural  Science,  and 
which  would  make  no  small  or  unuseful  or  unpleasant  Volum[e]. 
To  this  we  would  have  added  the  Morals  and  Rhetoricks  of 
Ciceroy  and  the  Institutions  of  ^intillan ;  and  for  the  Co- 
moedians,  from  whom  almost  all  that  necessary  part  of  common 
discourse,  and  all  the  most  intimate  proprieties  of  the  Language 
are  drawn,  we  conceive  the  Boys  may  be  made  Masters  of 
them,  as  a  part  of  their  Recreation  and  not  of  their  task,  if  once 
a  moneth,  or  at  least  once  in  two,  they  aft  one  of  Terencei 
Comoedies,  and  afterwards  (the  most  advanced)  some  of  Plautus 
his ;  and  this  is  for  many  reasons  one  of  the  best  exercises  they 
can  be  enjoyned,  and  most  innocent  pleasures  they  can  fale 
allowed.  As  for  the  Greek  Authors,  they  may  study  Nicandefy 
Oppianus  (whom  Scallger  does  not  doubt  to  prefer  above  Homer 
himself,  and  place  next  to  his  adored  Firgil)  Aristotles  History 
of  Animals,  and  other  parts,  Theophrastus  and  Dmcorides  of 
Plants,  and  a  Colleftion  made  out  of  several  both  Poets  and 
other  Grecian  Writers.  For  the  Morals  and  Rhetorick  ArisUtb 
may  suffice,  or  Hermogenes  and  Longinus  be  added  for  the  latter; 
with  the  History  of  Animals  they  should  be  shewed  Anatomy 
as  a  Divertisement,  and  made  to  know  the  Figures  and  Natures 
of  those  Creatures  which  are  not  common  among  iis,  disabusing 
them  at  the  same  time  of  those  Errours  which  are  imiversally 
admitted  concerning  many.  The  same  Method  should  be  used 
to  make  them  acquainted  with  all  Plants;  and  to  this  miist  be 
added  a  little  of  the  ancient  and  modern  Geography,  the  under- 

256 


THE   SCHOOL 

Standing  of  the  Globes,  and  the  Principles  of  Geometry  i 
Astronomy.  They  should  likewise  use  to  declaim  in  Lume 
and  English,  as  the  Romans  did  in  Greek  and  Latine  ;  and  in 
all  this  travel  be  rather  led  on  by  tarailiarity,  encouragement, 
and  emulation,  then  driven  by  severity,  punishment,  and  terrour. 
Upon  Festivals  and  playtimes  they  should  exercise  themselves 
in  the  Fields  by  riding,  leaping,  fencing,  mustering  and  training 
after  the  manner  of  Souldiers,  Es^c  and  to  prevent  all  dangers 
and  all  disorder,  there  should  always  be  two  of  the  Scholars 
with  them  to  be  as  witnesses  and  direftors  of  their  anions ;  In 
foul  weather  it  would  not  be  amiss  for  them  to  learn  to  dance, 
that  is,  to  learn  just  so  much  [for  all  beyond  is  superfluous,  if 
not  worse)  as  may  give  them  a  graceful  comportment  of  their 
bodies. 

Upon  Sundays,  and  all  days  of  Devotion,  they  are  to  be 
a  part  of  the  Chaplains  Province. 

That  for  ail  these  ends  the  Coiledge  so  order  it,  as  that 
there  may  be  some  convenient  &  pleasant  Houses  thereabouts, 
kept  by  religious,  discreet,  and  careful  persons,  for  the  lodging 
and  bearding  of  young  Scholars,  that  they  have  a  constant  eye 
over  them  to  see  that  they  be  bred  up  there  piously,  cleanly,  and 
plentifully,  according  to  the  proportion  of  their  parents  expences. 

And  that  the  Coiledge,  when  it  shall  please  God  cither  by 
their  own  industry  and  success,  or  by  the  benevolence  of 
Patrons,  to  enrich  them  so  far,  as  that  it  may  come  to  their 
lum  and  duty  to  be  charitable  to  others,  shall  at  their  own 
charges  ereO  and  maintain  some  House  or  Houses  for  the 
Entertainment  of  such  poor  me-ns  Sons  whose  good  Natural 
Parts  may  promise  either  Use  or  Ornament  to  the  Common- 
wealth, during  the  time  of  their  abode  at  School,  and  shall  take 
care  that  it  shall  be  done  with  the  same  conveniences  as  are 
enjoyed  even  by  rich  mens  Children  (though  they  maintain  the 
fewer  for  that  cause)  there  being  nothing  of  eminent  and  illus- 
trious to  be  cxpeflcd  from  a  low,  sordid,  and  Hospital-like 
Education. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Conclusion. 

IF  I  be  not  much  abused  by  a  natural  fondness  to  my  own 
Conceptions  (that  arofyytf  of  the  Greeks,  which  no  other 
Language  has  a  proper  word  for)  there  was  never  any  Projefi 
thought  upon,  which  deserves  to  meet  with  so  few  Adversaries 
as  this ;  for  who  can  without  impudent  folly  oppose  the  estab- 
lishment of  twenty  well  seledted  persons  in  such  a  condition  of 
Life,  that  their  whole  business  and  sole  profession  may  be  to 
study  the  improvement  and  advantage  of  all  other  Protessions, 
from  that  of  the  highest  General  even  to  the  lowest  Artisan  ? 
Who  shall  be  oblieed  to  imploy  their  whole  time,  wit,  learning, 
and  industry,  to  these  four,  the  most  useful  that  can  be  ima- 
gined, and  to  no  other  Ends;  first,  to  weigh,  examine,  and 
prove  all  things  of  Nature  delivered  to  us  by  former  ages,  to 
detect,  explode,  and  strike  a  censure  through  all  false  Monies 
with  which  the  world  has  been  paid  and  cheated  so  long,  and 
(as  I  may  say)  to  set  the  mark  of  the  CoUedge  upon  all  true 
Coins  that  they  may  pass  hereafter  without  any  farther  Tryal. 
Secondly,  to  recover  the  lost  Inventions,  and,  as  it  were,  Drown'd 
Lands  of  the  Ancients.  Thirdly,  to  improve  all  Arts  which 
we  now  have ;  And  lastlv,  to  discover  others  which  we  yet 
have  not.  And  who  shall  besides  all  this  (as  a  Benefit  by  the 
by)  give  the  best  Education  in  the  world  (purely  gratis)  to  as 
many  mens  Children  as  shall  think  fit  to  make  use  of  the  Obli- 
gation. Neither  does  it  at  all  check  or  enterfere  with  any 
parties  in  State  or  Religion,  but  is  indifferently  to  be  embraced 
by  all  Differences  in  opinion,  and  can  hardly  be  conceived 
capable  (as  many  good  Institutions  have  done)  even  of  Degene- 
ration into  any  thing  harmful.  So  that,  all  things  considered,  I 
will  suppose  this  Proposition  shall  encounter  with  no  Enemies, 
the  only  Question  is,  whether  it  will  find  Friends  enough  to 
carry  it  on  from  Discourse  and  Design  to  Reality  and  EffeA ; 
the  necessary  Expences  of  the  Beginning  (for  it  will  maintain  it 
self  well  enough  afterwards)  being  so  great  (though  I  have  set 
them  as  low  as  is  possible  in  order  to  so  vast  a  work)  that 
it  may  seem  hopeless  to  raise  such  a  sum  out  of  those  few  dead 
Reliques  of  Humane  Charity  and  Publick  Generosity  which  are 
yet  remaining  in  the  World. 

FINIS. 

258 


CUTTER 

OF 

COLEMAN-STREET. 

A   COMEDY. 


The  Scene  LONDON, 
in  the  year   1658. 


Written  by 

Abraham  Cowley. 


LONDON, 

Printed  for  Henry  Herringman  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Anchor  in  the  Lower  walk  in  the  New-Exchange. 

Anno  Dem.  1663. 


PREFACE. 

A  Comedy^  called  the  Guardian,  and  made  by  me  when  I  was 
very  Youngy  was  A£ted  formerly  at  Camebridge,  and  several 
times  after  privately  during  the  troubles^  as  I  am  toldy  with  good 
approbation^  as  it  has  been  lately  too  at  Dublin.  There  being  many 
things  in  it  which  I  disliked^  and  finding  my  self  for  some  dayes  idle^ 
and  alone  in  the  Countrey^  I  fell  upon  the  changing  of  it  almost  wholly ^ 
as  now  it  isj  and  as  it  was  played  since  at  his  Royal  Highnesses 
Theatre  under  this  New  name.  It  met  at  the  first  representation 
with  no  favourable  reception^  and  I  think  there  was  something  of 
Faction  against  ity  by  the  early  appearance  of  some  merCs  dis~ 
approbation  before  they  had  seen  enough  of  it  to  build  their  dislike 
upon  their  judgment.  Afterwards  it  got  some  ground^  and  found 
Friends  as  well  as  Adversarys.  In  which  condition  I  should 
willingly  let  it  dye^  if  the  main  imputations  under  which  it  suffered^ 
bad  been  shot  only  against  my  Wit  or  Art  in  these  matters^  and  not 
dire^ed  against  the  tenderest  parts  of  human  reputation^  good  Nature^ 
good  Manners^  and  Piety  it  self  The  first  clamour  which  some 
malitious  persons  raisedy  and  made  a  great  noise  withy  waSy  That  it 
was  a  piece  intended  for  abuse  and  Satyre  against  the  Kings  party. 
Good  God!  Against  the  Kings  party?  After  having  served  it 
twenty  years  during  all  the  time  of  their  misfortunes  and  affliSfionSy 
I  must  be  a  very  rash  and  imprudent  person  if  I  chose  out  that  of 
their  Restitution  to  begin  a  S^arrelwith  them.  I  must  be  too  much 
a  Madman  to  be  trusted  with  such  an  Edg^d  Tool  as  Comedy. 
But  firsty  why  should  either  the  whole  party  (as  it  was  once 
distinguish  by  that  namey  which  I  hope  is  abolisht  now  by  Universal 
Loyalty)  or  any  man  of  virtue  or  honour  in  iV,  believe  themselves 
injured  or  at  all  concemedy  by  the  representation  of  the  faults  and 
follies  of  a  few  who  in  the  General  division  of  the  rJation  had 
crowded  in  among  them?  In  all  mixt  numbers  {which  is  the  case 
of  Parties)  nay^  in  the  most  entire  and  continued  Bodies  there  are 
often  some  degenerate  and  corrupted  partSy  which  may  be  cast  away 
from  thaty  and  even  cut  off  from  this  Unityy  without  any  infection 

t  scandal  to  the  remaining  Body.  The  Church  of  Rome  with  all 
arrogancey  and  her  wide  pretences  of  certainty  in  all  Truthsy 
and  exemption  from  all  Errorsy  does  not  clap  on  this  enchanted 
Armour  of  Infallibility  upon  all  her  particular  Subje^fSy  nor  is 
offended  at  the  reproof  even  of  her  greatest  DoSfors.     We  are  noty 

261 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

/  hope  J  become  such  Puritans  our  sehes  as  to  assume  the  Name  of  the 
Congregation  of  the  Spotless.  It  is  hard  for  any  Party  to  be  so  III 
as  that  no  Good^  Impossible  to  he  so  Good  as  that  no  III  should  be 
found  among  them.  And  it  has  been  the  perpetual  privilege  of  Satyre 
and  Comedy  to  pluck  their  vices  and  follies  though  not  their  Persons 
out  of  the  SanSfuary  of  any  Title.  A  Cowardly  ranting  S^uldier^ 
an  Ignorant  Charlatanical  DoSfor^  a  foolish  Cheating  Lawyer^ 
a  silly  Pedantical  Scholar^  have  alwayes  been^  and  ftill  are  the 
Principal  SubjeSfs  of  all  Comedy^  without  any  scandal  given  to  those 
Honourable  Professions^  or  ever  taken  by  their  severest  Professors  \ 
And^  if  any  good  Physician  or  Divine  should  be  offended  with  me  here 
for  inveighing  against  a  Si^ack^  or  for  finding  Deacon  Soaker  tm 
often  in  the  ButteryeSj  my  respe£l  and  reverence  to  their  calEngs 
would  make  me  troubled  at  their  displeasure^  but  I  could  net  abstain 
from  taking  them  for  very  Cholerique  and  Quarrelsome  persons. 
JVhat  does  this  therefore  amount  tOj  if  it  were  true  which  is 
objeSfed?  But  it  is  far  from  being  so\  for  the  representation  of  two 
Sharks  about  the  Town  {fellows  merry  and  Ingenious  enough^  and 
therefore  admitted  into  better  companyes  than  they  deserve^  yet  withaU 
too  very  scoundrels^  which  is  no  unfrequent  Chara£ler  at  London) 
the  representation  I  say  of  these  as  Pretended  Officers  of  the  Royal 
Armyy  was  made  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  show  the  Worlds  that 
the  vices  and  extravagancies  imputed  vulgarly  to  the  CavaKerSj 
were  really  committed  by  Aliens  who  only  usurped  that  nanUy  and 
endeavoured  to  cover  the  reproach  of  their  Indigency  or  Infamy 
of  their  AStions  with  so  honourable  a  Title.  So  that  the  business 
was  not  here  to  corre£i  or  cut  off  any  natural  branches^  though  never 
so  corrupted  or  Luxuriant^  but  to  separate  and  cast  away  thai 
vermine  which  by  sticking  so  close  to  them  had  done  great  and 
considerable  prejudice  both  to  the  Beauty  and  Fertility  of  the  Tree\ 
And  this  is  as  plainly  saidy  and  as  often  inculcated  as  if  one  should 
write  round  about  a  SignCy  This  is  a  Dogy  this  is  a  Dogj  out  of 
over^much  caution  lest  some  might  happen  to  mistake  it  for  a  Lyon^ 
Therefore  when  this  Calumny  could  not  hold  {for  the  case  is  cleer^ 
and  will  take  no  colour)  Some  others  sought  out  a  subtiler  bint  to 
traduce  me  upon  the  same  scorcy  and  were  angry  that  the  person 
whom  I  made  a  true  Gentlemany  and  one  both  of  considerable 
S^ality  and  Sufferings  in  the  Royal  partyy  should  not  have  a  fair 
and  noble  Character  throughouty  but  should  submit  in  his  great 
extremities  to  wrong  his  Niece  for  his  own  Relief     This  is  a  refined 

262 


PREFACE 

ixceptioHy  such  as  I  little  fortsaWy  nor  should  with  the  dulness  of  my 
usual  Charity y  have  found  out  against  another  man  in  twenty  years. 
The  truth  is^  I  did  not  intend  the  Character  of  a  Hero,  one  of 
exemplary  virtue^  and  as  Homer  often  terms  such  men^  UnblameabUy 
hut  an  ordinary  jovial  Gentleman^  commonly  called  a  Good  Fellow^ 
one  not  so  conscientious  as  to  sterve  rather  than  do  the  least  Injury^ 
and  yet  endowed  with  so  much  sense  of  Honour  as  to  refuse  when 
that  necessity  was  removedy  the  gain  of  five  thousand  pounds  which 
be  might  have  taken  from  his  Niece  by  the  rigour  of  a  Forfeiture ; 
And  let  the  frankness  of  this  latter  generosity  so  expiate  for  the  former 
frailty y  as  may  make  us  not  ashamed  of  his  Company y  for  if  his  true 
Metal  be  but  equal  to  his  Allayy  it  will  not  indeed  render  him  one 
of  the  Finest  sorts  of  mm,  but  it  will  make  him  Currenty  for  ought 
I  knoWy  in  any  party  that  ever  yet  was  in  the  World.  If  you  be 
to  choose  parts  fir  a  Comedy  out  of  any  noble  or  elevated  rank  of 
personsy  the  most  proper  for  that  work  are  the  worst  of  that  kind. 
Comedy  is  humble  of  her  Naturcy  and  has  alwayes  been  bred  loWy  so 
that  she  knows  not  how  to  behave  her  self  with  the  great  or  the 
accomplisht.  She  does  not  pretend  to  the  brisk  and  bold  ^alities  of 
Winey  but  to  the  Stomachal  Acidity  of  Finegary  and  ther^ore  is  best 
placed  among  that  sort  of  people  which  the  Romans  call  The  Lees  of 
Romulus.  If  I  had  designed  here  the  celebration  of  the  f^irtues  of 
our  Friendsy  I  would  have  made  the  Scene  nobler  where  I  intended 
to  ere&  their  Statues.  They  should  have  stood  in  OdeSy  and  TragedieSy 
and  Epique  Poemsy  (neither  have  I  totally  omitted  those  greater 
testimonies  rfmy  esteem  of  them)  Sed  nunc  non  erat  his  Locus,  ^c. 
And  so  much  for  this  little  spiny  objeSfion  which  a  man  cannot  see 
without  a  Magnifying  Glass.  The  next  is  enough  to  knock  a  man 
dowHj  and  accuses  me  of  no  less  than  Prophaness.  Prophancy  to 
deride  the  Hypocrisie  of  those  men  whose  skuls  are  not  yet  bare  upon 
the  Gates  since  the  pullique  and  just  punishment  of  it?  But  there 
is  some  imitation  of  Scripture  Phrases 'y  God  forbid  \  There  is  no 
representation  of  the  true  face  of  Scripturcy  but  only  of  that  f^izard 
which  these  Hypocrites  (that  iV,  by  interpretation  A£fors  with  a 
Fixari)  draw  upon  it.  Is  it  Prophane  to  speak  of  Harrison's 
return  to  Life  againy  when  some  of  his  friends  really  prof  est  their 
belief  of  itj  and  he  himself  had  been  said  to  promise  it?  A  man 
may  be  so  imprudently  scrupulous  as  to  find  prophaness  in  any  thing 
eitper  said  or  written  by  applying  it  under  some  similitude  or  other 
to  some  expressions  in  Scripture.     This  nicety  is  both  vain  and  endless. 

263 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

But  I  call  God  to  witmssy  that  rather  than  one  tittU  should  remain 
among  all  my  writings  which  according  to  my  severest  judgment 
should  be  found  guilty  of  the  crime  objeSiedy  I  would  mysi^bum  and 
extinguish  them  all  together.  Nothing  is  so  detestably  lewd  and 
rechless  as  the  derision  of  things  sacredy  and  would  be  in  me  more 
unpardonable  than  any  man  else^  who  have  endeavoured  to  root  out 
the  ordinary  weeds  of  Poetry^  and  to  plant  it  almost  wholly  with 
Divinity,  I  am  so  far  from  allowing  any  loose  or  irreverent 
expressions  in  matters  of  that  Religion  which  I  believe^  that  I  am 
very  tender  in  this  point  even  for  the  grossest  errors  of  Conscientious 
persons.  They  are  the  properest  obje£f  {me  thinks)  both  of  our  Pitty 
and  Charity  too;  They  are  the  innocent  and  white  SeSiarteSy  in 
comparison  of  another  kind  who  engraft  Pride  upon  Ignorancey 
Tyranny  upon  Liberty^  and  upon  all  their  Heresies^  Treason  and 
Rebellion,  These  are  Principles  so  destructive  to  the  Peace  and 
Society  of  Mankind  that  they  deserve  to  be  persued  by  our  serious 
Hatredj  and  the  putting  a  Mask  of  San£fity  upon  such  Devils  is  so 
Ridiculousy  that  it  ought  to  be  exposed  to  contempt  and  laughter. 
They  are  indeed  ProphanCy  who  counterfeit  the  softness  of  the  voyce 
of  Moliness  to  disguize  the  roughness  of  the  hands  of  Impiety^  and 
not  they  who  with  reverence  to  the  thing  which  the  others  dissembUy 
deride  nothing  but  their  Dissimulation,  If  some  piece  of  an  admirable 
Artist  should  e  ill  Copyed  even  to  ridiculousness  by  an  ignorant  handy 
and  another  Painter  should  undertake  to  draw  that  Copyy  and  make 
it  yet  more  ridiculousy  to  shew  apparently  the  difference  of  the  two 
worksy  and  deformity  of  the  lattery  will  not  every  man  see  plainly 
that  the  abuse  is  intended  to  the  foolish  ImitatioUy  and  not  to  the 
Excellent  Original?  I  might  say  much  more  to  confute  andcotifrund 
this  very  false  and  malitious  accusationy  but  this  is  enough  I  hope  to 
deer  the  mattery  and  is  I  am  afraid  too  much  for  a  Preface  to  a 
work  of  so  little  consideration.  As  for  all  other  objections  which 
have  been  or  may  be  made  against  the  Invention  or  ElocutioHy  or  any 
thing  else  which  comes  under  the  Critical  JurisdiSliony  let  it  stand 
or  fall  as  it  can  answer  for  it  self  for  I  do  not  lay  the  great  stress 
of  my  Reputation  upon  a  Structure  of  this  Naturcy  much  less  upon 
the  slight  Reparations  only  of  an  Old  and  unfashionable  Building. 
There  is  no  Writer  but  may  fail  sometimes  in  point  of  Wity  and  it 
is  no  less  frequent  for  the  Auditors  to  fail  in  point  of  Judgment. 
I  perceive  plainly  by  dayly  experience  that  Fortune  is  Afistris  of  the 
Theatrcy  as  Tuily  sayes  it  is  of  all  popular  Assemblies.     No  man 

264 


PREFACE 

can  tell  sometimes  from  whence  the  Invisible  winds  arise  that  move 
them.  There  are  a  multitude  of  people  who  are  truly  and  onelj 
Spe&ators  at  a  plajy  without  any  use  of  their  Understanding^  ami 
these  carry  it  sometimes  by  the  strength  of  their  Number.  There 
are  others  who  use  their  Understanding  too  much^  who  think  it  a 
sign  of  weakness  or  stupidity  to  let  anything  pass  by  them  unattaquedy 
and  that  the  Honour  of  their  Judgment  (as  some  Brutals  imagine 
of  their  Courage)  consists  in  barrelling  with  every  thing.  We  are 
therefore  wonderfull  wise  men^  and  have  a  fine  business  of  ity  we 
who  spend  our  time  in  Poetry^  I  do  sometimes  laughy  and  am  often . 
angry  with  my  self  when  I  think  on  ity  and  if  I  had  a  Son  inclined 
by  Nature  to  the  same  fiflfyy  I  believe  I  should  bind  him  from  ity  by 
the  stri£2est  conjurations  of  a  paternal  Blessing.  For  what  can  be 
mure  ridiculous  than  to  labour  to  give  men  delighty  whilst  they  labour 
on  their  part  more  earnestly  to  take  offence?  to  expose  one^s  self 
voluntarily  and  frankly  to  all  the  dangers  of  that  narrow  passage 
to  unprofitable  ramcy  which  is  defended  by  rude  multitudes  of  the 
Ignoranty  and  by  armed  Troops  of  the  Malitious  ?  If  we  do  ill 
many  discover  it  and  all  despise  usy  if  we  do  well  but  few  men  find 
it  outy  and  fewer  entertain  it  kindly.  If  we  commit  errors  there  is 
no  pardony  if  we  could  do  wonders  there  would  be  but  little  thanksy 
and  that  too  extorted  from  unwilling  Givers.  But  some  perhaps 
may  sayy  fVas  it  not  ahvayes  thus  ?  Do  you  expert  a  particular 
privilege  that  was  never  yet  enjoyed  by  any  Poet?  were  the  ancient 
Graecian,  or  noble  Roman  AuthorSy  was  Virgil  himself  exempt 
from  this  Passibilityy  Qui  melior  multis  quam  tu  fiiit,  Improbe, 
rebus,  Who  was  in  many  things  thy  better  fary  Thou  impudent 
Pretender?  As  was  said  by  Lucretius  to  a  person  who  took  it  ill 
that  he  was  to  Dycy  though  he  had  seen  so  many  do  it  before  him  who 
better  deserved  Immortality  \  and  this  is  to  repine  at  the  natural 
condition  of  a  Living  Poety  as  he  did  at  that  of  a  Living  Mortal. 
I  do  not  only  acknowledge  the  Pra-^minence  of  Virgil  (whose  Foot^ 
steps  I  adore)  but  submit  to  many  of  his  Roman  Brethreny  and 
I  confess  that  even  they  in  their  own  times  were  not  secure  from  the 
assaults  of  Detra^ion  {though  Horace  brags  at  lasty  Jam  dente 
minus  mordeor  invido)  but  then  the  Barkings  of  a  few  were 
drowned  in  the  Applause  of  all  the  rest  of  the  IVorldy  and  the 
Poison  of  their  Bi  tings  extinguish  by  the  Antidote  of  great  rewardsy 
and  great  encouragementSy  which  is  a  way  of  curing  now  out  of  usOy 
and  I  really  prtfess  that  I  neither  expe£fy  nor  think  I  deserve  it. 

265 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Indolency  would  serve  my  turn  instead  of  Pleasure  \  for  though 
I  comfort  my  self  with  some  assurance  of  the  favour  and  affe&ion 
of  very  many  candid  and  good  natured  {and  yet  too  judicious  and 
even  Critical)  personsy  yet  this  I  do  affirm^  that  from  all  which 
I  have  written  I  never  received  the  least  benefit^  or  the  least 
advantage^  but  on  the  contrary  have  felt  sometimes  the  effe&s  of 
Malice  and  Misfortune. 


T'he  Prologue. 


As  when  the  Midland  Sea  is  no  where  clear 
From  dreadfuU  Fleets  of  Tunis  and  Argier^ 
Which  coast  about,  to  all  they  meet  with  Foes, 
And  upon  which  nought  caii  be  got  but  Blowes, 
The  Merchand  Ships  so  much  their  passage  doubt, 
That,  though  full-freighted,  none  dares  venture  out. 
And  Trade  decayes,  and  Scarcity  ensues; 
Just  so  the  timerous  Wits  of  late  refuse, 
Though  laded,  to  put  forth  upon  the  Stage, 
Affrighted  by  the  Critiques  of  this  age. 
It  is  a  Party  numerous,  watchfiill,  bold; 
They  can  from  nought,  which  sailes  in  sight,  witb-hold. 
Nor  doe  their  cheap,  though  mortal.  Thunder  spare; 
They  shoot,  alas,  with  Wind-gunns,  charg'd  with  Air. 
But  yet.  Gentlemen  Critiques  of  Argier^ 
For  your  own  int'rest  I'de  advise  ye  here 
To  let  this  little  Forlorn  Hope  goe  by 
Safe  and  untoucht;   That  must  not  be  (you'l  cry) 
If  ye  be  wise,  it  must ;    He  tell  yee  why. 
There  are  Seven,  Eight,  Nine,  .  .  .  stay  .  .  .  there  are  behind 
Ten  Playes  at  least,  which  wait  but  for  a  Wind, 
And  the  glad  News  that  we  the  Enemy  miss; 
And  those  are  all  your  own,  if  you  spare  This. 
Some  are  but  new  trim'd  up,  others  quite  New, 
Some  by  known  Shipwrights  built,  and  others  too 
By  that  great  Author  made,  whoere  he  be, 
That  stiles  himself  Person  of  Qualitie. 

266 


THE   PROLOGUE 

All  these,  if  we  miscarry  here  to-day, 

Will  rather  till  they  Rot  in  th'  Harbour  stay, 

Nay  they  will  back  again,  though  they  were  come, 

Ev*n  to  their  last  safe  Rode,  the  Tyring  room. 

Therefore  again  I  say,  if  you  be  wise. 

Let  this  for  once  pass  free;    let  it  sufSse 

That  we  your  Soverai[gn]  power  here  to  avow. 

Thus  humbly  ere  we  pass,  strike  sail  to  You. 


Added  at   Court. 

STay  Gentlemen;   what  I  have  said,  was  all 
But  forcM  submission,  which  I  now  recall. 
Ye*re  all  but  Pirats  now  again;  for  here 
Does  the  true  Soveraign  of  the  Seas  appear. 
The  Soveraign  of  these  Narrow  Seas  of  wit ; 
*Tis  his  own  Thames -^    He  knows  and  Governs  it. 
*Tis  his  Dominion,  and  Domain ;   as  Hee 
Pleases,  *tis  either  Shut  to  us  or  Free. 
Not  onely,  if  his  Pasport  we  obtain. 
We  fear  no  little  Rovers  of  the  Main, 
But  if  our  Neptune  his  calm  visage  show, 
No  Wave  shall  dare  to  Rise  or  Wind  to  Blow. 


267 


The  Persons. 


Colonel  Jolly 

Mistris  Aurelia 
Mistris  Lucia 

Cutter 


{ 


Worm 


Mr.  Puny 

Mr.  Truman  Senior 
Mr.  Truman  Junior 

Mistris  Barebottle 

Mistris  Tabitha 

Mistris  Jane 

Mr.  Soaker 
Several  Servants. 


A  Gentleman  whose  Estate  was  con- 
fiscated  in  the  late  troubles. 

His  Daughter, 

His  Niecej  left  to  his  Tuition. 

A  merry  sharking  fellow  ahout  the 
Townj  pretending  to  have  been  a 
Colonel  in  the  Kings  Army. 

His    Companion^   and    such    another 
ftlloWy  pretending  to  have  been  a 
Captain, 

A  youngs  richy  brisk  FoPy  pretending  t§ 
extraordinary  wity  Suter  to  Mistris 
Lucia. 

An  oldy  testyy  Covetous  Gentleman. 

His  Sony  in  love  with  Mistris  Lucia, 

A  Sopeboyler*s  widdoWy  who  had  bought 
Jolly's  EstatCy  A  pretended  Saint, 

Her  Daughter. 

Mistris  Lucias  Maidy  a  little  laugh- 
ing Fop. 

A  little  Fudling  Deacon. 


{ 


{ 


268 


CUTTER 

OF 

COLEMAN-STREET. 


A6k   I.     Scene   i. 

Truman  yunior. 

HOW  hard,  alas,  is  that  young  Lover's  fate, 
Who  has  a  &ther  Covetous  and  Cholerique  ! 
What  has  he  made  me  swear  ? — 

I  dare  not  think  upon  the  Oath,  lest  I  should  keep  it — 
Never  to  see  my  Mistris  more,  or  hear  her  speak 
Without  his  leave;  And  forewel  then  the  use 
Of  Eyes  and  Ears ; — 
And  all  this  Wickedness  I  submitted  to, 
For  fear  of  being  Disinherited ; 
For  fear  of  losing  Durt  and  Dross,  I  lose 
My  Mistris — There's  a  Lover  !    Fitter  much 
For  Hell  than  thousand  perjuries  could  make  him ; 
Fit  to  be  made  th*  Example  which  all  Women 
Should  reproach  Men  with,  when  themselves  grow  false; 
Yet  she,  the  good  and  charitable  Lucia^ 
With  such  a  bounty  as  has  onely  been 
PraftisM  by  Heaven,  and  Kings  inspired  from  thence. 
Forgives  still,  and  still  loves  her  perjur'd  Rebel. 
I  'le  to  my  &ther  strait,  and  swear  to  him 
Ten  thousand  Oathes  ne'r  to  observe  that  wicked  one 
Which  he'  has  extorted  from  me — 'Here  he  comes; 
And  my  weak  heart,  already  us'd  to  falshood. 
Begins  to  waver. 

269 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 

Scene  2. 

Truman  Senior^  Truman  Junior. 

Trum.  Sen.     Well,  Dicky  you  know  what  jrou  swore  to  me 
yesterday,  And  solemnly. 

I  ha'  been  considering,  and  considering  all  Night,  Dict^  for 
your  good,  and  me-thinl^  supposing  I  were  a  youne  man  again, 
and  the  case  my  own  (for  I  love  to  be  just  in  all  things)  me- 
thinks  'tis  hard  for  a  young  man,  I  say,  who  has  been  a  Lover 
so  long  as  you  ha'  been,  to  break  off  on  a  suddain.  Am  I  in 
the  right  or  no,  Diet?     Do  you  mark  me  ? 

Trum.  Jun.  Hard,  Sir,  'tis  harder  much  than  any  death 
Prolong'd  by  Tortures. 

Trum.  Sen.  Why  so  I  thought ;  and  therefore  out  o*  my 
care  for  your  ease,  I  have  hit  upon  an  Expedient  that  I  think 
will  salve  the  matter ! 

Trum.  Jun.     And  I  will  thank  you  for  it  more,  Sir, 
Than  for  the  life  you  gave  me. 

Trum.  sen.     Why !    well  said,   Dici^  and  I  'me  glad  with 
all  my 
Heart,  I  thought  upon't;  in  brief,  'tis  this,  Did; 
I  ha'  found  out  another  Mistris  for  you. 

Trum.  jun.     Another  ?     Heaven  forbid.  Sir ! 

Trum.  sen.     I ;    Another,    Good-man    Jack  Sawce ;   marry 
come  up; 
Won't  one  o'  my  choosing  serve  your  turn,  as  well 
As  one  o'  your  own;   sure  I 'me  the  older  man. 
Jack  Sawce,  and  should  be  the  Wiser! 

Trum.  Jun.     But  Nature,  Sir,  that's  wiser  than  all  Mankind, 
Is  Mistris  in  the  choice  of  our  a(Fe£tions; 
AfieAions  are  not  rais'd  from  outward  Reasons, 
But  inward  Sympathies. 

Trum.  sen.     Very  well,  Dick,  if  you  be  a  dutiful  son  to  me, 
you  shall  have  a  good  Estate,  and  so  has  she ; 
There's  Sympathy  for  you  now;   but  I  perceive 
You  'r  hankring  still  after  Mrs.  Lucy^ 

Do,   do!    forswear  your  self;   do,  damn  your  self,  and  be  a 
beggar  too;  sure  I  would  never  undo  my  self,  by  perjury;  if  I 

270 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

had  a  mind  to  go  to  hell,  Cromwel  should  make  me  a  Lord 
for 't !  I,  and  one  of  his  Councel  too,  I  'de  never  be  damn'd  for 
nothing,  for  a  Whim-wham  in  a  Coif.  But  to  be  short,  The 
person  I  design  for  you  is  Mrs.  Tabith[a  Ba]rebottleyO\xx  neighbour 
the  Widow's  daughter.  What  do  you  start  at,  Sirra  ?  I,  Sirra, 
Jack-an-apes,  if  you  start  when  your  father  speaks  to  you. 

Trum.  jun.     You  did  not  think  her  father  once  I  'me  sure 
A  person  fit  for  your  Alliance,  when  he  plundred  your  House 
in  Hartfordshirey  and  took  away  the  very  Hop-poles,  pretending 
they  were  Arms  too. 

TVwfi.  sen.  He  was  a  very  Rogue,  that 's  the  Truth  on  't, 
as  to  the  business  between  man  and  man,  but  as  to  God-ward 
he  was  always  counted  an  Upright  man,  and  very  devout.  But 
that 's  all  one,  I  'me  sure  h  'as  rais'd  a  fine  Estate  out  o'  nothing 
by  his  Industry  in  these  Times :  An'  I  had  not  been  a  Beast 
too-^but  Heaven's  will  be  done,  I  could  not  ha'  don't  with 
a  good  conscience.  Well,  Dicky  I  'le  go  talk  with  her  mother 
about  this  matter,  and  examine  fully  what  her  Estate  is,  for 
unless  it  prove  a  good  one,  I  tell  you  true,  Dicky  I  'me  o'  your 
Opinion,  not  to  marry  such  a  Rogues  daughter. 

Trum.JuH.     I  beseech  you.  Sir —  Exit  Trum.  sen. 

It  is  in  vain -to  speak  to  him — 
Though  I  to  save  this  Dung-hill  an  Estate 
Have  done  a  Crime  like  theirs. 
Who  have  abjur'd  their  King  for  the  same  cause, 
I  will  not  yet,  like  them,  persue  the  guilt. 
And  in  thy  place,  Lucia  my  lawful  Soverain, 
Set  up  a  low  and  scandalous  Usurper !  Enter  Servant, 

Serv.  'Tis  well  the  old  man 's  just  gone.  There 's  a 
Gentlewoman  without.  Sir,  desires  to  speaJc  one  word  with 
you. 

Trum.jun.     With  me?  who  is't? 

Serv.  It  should  be  Mrs.  Lucia  by  her  voice,  Sir,  but  she 's 
vcil'd  all  over.     Will  you  please  to  see  her.  Sir  ? 

Trum.     Will  I  see  her.  Blockhead  ?  yes ;  go  out  and  kneel 
to  her 
And  pray  her  to  come  in.  {Exit  Serv.) 


271 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Scene  3. 

Liuia  {viil'd),  T'ruman, 

Trum.    This  is  a  favour,  Madain  I 
That  I  as  little  hop'd,  as  I  am  able 
To  thank  you  for  it — But  why  all  this  muffling? 
Why  a  disguise,  my  Dearest,  between  us  ? 
Unless  to  increase,  my  desire  first,  and  then  my  joy  to  see  thee 
Thou  cast  this  subtil  night  before  thy  beauty. 
And  now  like  one  scorch'd  with  some  raging  Feaver, 
Upon  whose  flames  no  dew  of  sleep  has  lain, 
I  do  begin  to  quarrel  with  the  Darkness, 
And  blame  the  sloathful  rising  of  the  Morn, 
And  with  more  joy  shall  welcome  it,  than  they 
Whose  Icy  dwellings  the  cold  Bear  o're-looks, 
When  after  half  the  years  Winter  and  Night, 
Day  and  the  Spring  at  once  salutes  their  sight  1 
Thus  it  appears,  thus  like  thy  matchless  beauty. 
When  this  black  Clowd  is  vanish'd, 

[tferi  ta  pull  tftht  Val, 
Why  d  'c  you  shrink  back,  my  Dearest  ? 
I  prcthee  let  me  look  a  little  on  thee: 
'Tis  all  the  pleasure  Love  has  yet  allow'd  me, 
And  more  than  Nature  does  in  all  things  else. 
At  least  speak  to  me  \   well  may  I  call  it  Night 
When  Silence  too  thus  joyns  it  self  with  Darkness. 
Ha!    I  had  quite  forgot  the  cursed  Oath  I  made — 
Pish !  what 's  an  Oath  forc'd  from  a  Lover's  Tongue  \ 
'TIS  not  recorded  in  Heaven's  dreadful  book. 
But  Bcatter'd  loosely  by  the  breath  that  made  it: 
Away  with  it;   to  make  it  was  but  a  Rashness, 
To  keep  it  were  a  Sin— Dear  Madam — 

Offirt  agtn^  but  the  rtjuses,  and  pvn  him  a  N»U. 
Ha  I   let 's  see  this  then  first  I 

IHt  rtadt. 
You  know  I  have  forgiven  your  unkind  Oath  to  your 
Father,  and  shall  never  su£fer  you  to  be  pcrjur'd. 
372 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

I  come  onely  to  let  you  know,  that  the  Physician  and  the 

'Pothecary  will  do  this  morning  what  we  proposed;  be  ready 

at  hand,  if  there  should  be  occasion  for  your  presence ;  I  dare 

not  stay  one  minute.     Farewel. 

Now  thousand  Angels  wait  upon  thee,  Luciay 

And  thousand  Blessings  upon  all  thou  do'st. 

Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand,  And  I*le  dismiss  you. 

Ah  cruel  father,  when  thou  mad'st  the  Oath, 

Thou  little  thought*st  that  thou  had'st  left 

Such  blessings  for  me  out  of  it.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  4. 

Colonel  Jolly,  fVill  {his  Man.) 

Joll.     Give  me  the  Pills;   what  said  the  Doftor,  H^ill? 

[Col.  Jolly  in  an  Indian  Gown  and  Night-^ap. 

fVill.  He  said  a  great  deal,  Sir,  but  I  was  not  Do£lor 
enough  to  understand  half  of  it. 

Joll.     A  man  may  drink,  he  says,  for  all  these  Bawbles? 

ff^ili.  He's  ill  advised  if  he  give  your  Worship  drinking 
Pills,  for  when  you  were  drinking  last  together,  a  Fit  took  you 
to  beat  the  Dodtor,  which  your  Worship  told  him  was  a  new 
Disease. 

Joll.  He  was  drunk  then  himself  first,  and  spoke  False 
Latin,  which  becomes  a  Dodlor  worse  than  a  beating.  But  he 
does  not  remember  that,  I  hope,  now  ? 

ff^ill.     I  think  he  does.  Sir,  for  he  says  the  Pills 
Are  to  puree  Black  Choler! 

JoU.  I,  Melancholy ;  I  shall  ha'  need  of  them  then,  for  my 
old  Purger  of  Melancholy,  Canary,  will  grow  too  dear  for  me 
shortly;  my  own  Estate  was  sold  for  being  with  the  King  at 
Oxfird.  A  Curse  upon  an  old  Dunce  that  needs  must  be 
gomg  to  Oxford  at  my  years !  My  good  Neighbor,  I  thank 
him,  Collonel  Fear-the-Lord^BarebottU,  a  Saint  and  a  Sope- 
boyler,  bought  it ;  but  he 's  dead,  and  boiling  now  himself, 
that 's  the  best  of 't ;  There  's  a  Cavalier's  comfort !  If  his 
damnable  Wife  now  would  marry  me,  it  would  return  again,  as 

c.  II.  s  %17^ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

I  hope  all  things  will  at  last ;  and  even  that  too  were  as  hard  a 
Composition  for  ones  own,  as  ever  was  made  at  HabberdasherS' 
Hall\  but  hang  her,  she  '1  ha*  none  o'  me,  unless  I  were  True 
Rich  and  Counterfeit  Godly ;  let  her  go  to  her  husband ;  \taka 
a  Pill,']  (so  much  for  that — It  does  not  go  down  so  glib  as  an 
Egg  in  Muskadine)  Now  when  my  Nieces  Portion  too  goes 
out  o*  my  hands,  which  I  can  keep  but  till  a  handsome  Wench 
of  eighteen  pleases  to  marry  (a  pitiful  slender  Tenure  that 's  the 
truth  on't)  I  ha'  nothing  to  do  but  to  live  by  Plots  for  the 
King,  or  at  least  to  be  hang'd  by  'em.  [takes  the  two  other 
Pills.]  (So,  go  thou  too)  well,  something  must  be  done,  unless 
a  man  could  get  true  Gems  by  drinking,  or  like  a  Mouse  in  a 
Cheese,  make  himself  a  house  by  eating. 

ff^illy  did  you  send  for  Colonel  Cutter  and  Captain  JVorm^  to 
come  and  keep  me  company  this  morning  that  I  take  Pbysick? 
They'l  be  loth  to  come  to  day,  there 's  so  little  hope  o*  drinking 
here. 

ff^ill.     They  said  they  would  be  here.  Sir,  before  this  time; 
Some  Morning's  draught,  I  believe,  has  intercepted  'em. 

yolL  I  could  Repent  now  heartily,  but  that  'twould  look  as 
if  I  were  compell'd  to 't,  and  besides  if  it  should  draw  me  to 
Amendment,  'twould  undo  me  now,  till  I  ha'  gotten  something. 
'Tis  a  hard  case  to  wrong  my  pretty  Niece ;  but  unless  I  get 
this  wicked  Widow,  I  and  my  daughter  must  starve  else ;  and 
that 's  harder  yet ;  Necessity  is,  as  I  take  it.  Fatality,  and  that 
will  excuse  all  things,  O  !  Here  they  are ! 

Scene   5. 

Colonel  yolly^  Colonel  Cutter^  Captain  IVorm. 

J  oil.     Welcome!  Men  o'  war,  what  news  abroad  in  Town? 

Cut,  Brave  news  I  faith !  it  arriv'd  but  yesterday  by  an 
Irish  Priest,  that  came  over  in  the  habit  of  a  Fish-wifc ;  a 
cunning  fellow,  and  a  man  o'  business ;  he 's  to  lie  Leiger  here 
for  a  whole  Irish  College  beyond-Sea,  and  do  all  their  Afiairs  of 
State.  The  Captain  spoke  with  him  last  night  at  the  Blew 
Anchor! 

Joll.     Well,  and  what  is 't  ? 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Worm.  Why,  Business  is  afloat  again ;  the  King  has 
mxister'd  five  and  twenty  thousand  men  in  Flanders^  as  tall 
Fellows  as  any  are  in  Christendom. 

ydL     A  pox  upon  you  for  a  couple  of  gross  Cheats! 
I  wonder  from  what  fools  in  what  blind  comers  you  get  a 
dinner  for  this  stuflF. 

Cut.  Nay,  there  *s  another  News  that 's  stranger  ye[t]  ;  but 
for  that  let  the  Captain  Answer. 

ff^or.  I  confess  I  should  ha'  thought  it  very  ridiculous,  but 
that  I  saw  it  from  a  good  hand  beyond  Sea,  under  Black  and 
White,  and  all  in  Cypher. 

%//.     Oh  it  cann't  miss  then ;  what  may  it  be,  pray  ? 

ff^or.     Why,  that  the  Emperor  of  Muscovy  has  promised 
To  land  ten  thousand  Bears  in  England  to 
Over-run  the  Country. 

JolL  Oh  !  that  *s  in  revenge  of  the  late  barbarous  Murder 
of  their  brethren  here  I  warrant  you ! 

Cut     Why,  Colonel,  things  will  come  about  again ! 
We  shall  have  another  'bout  for 't ! 

ydiL  Why  all  this  to  a  friend  that  knows  you  ?  where  were 
thy  former  Bouts,  I  prethee  Cutter?  where  didst  thou  ever 
serve  the  King,  or  when? 

Cut.  Why  every  where;  and  the  last  time  at  ff^orcester. 
If  I  never  serv'd  him  since,  the  faults  not  mine;  an  there 
had  been  any  Action — 

yoU.     At  tVorcester^  Cutter?  prethee  how  got's  thou  thither? 

Cut.  Why  as  you  and  all  other  Gentlemen  should  ha' 
done ;  I  carri  d  him  in  a  Troop  of  Reformado  Oflicers ;  most 
of  them  had  been  under  my  command  before ! 

JolL  I  *le  be  sworn  they  were  Reformado  Tapsters  then ; 
but  prethee  how  gots  thou  off? 

Cut.  Why  as  the  King  himself,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  great 
ones ;  in  a  disguise,  if  you  '1  needs  know 't. 

fVor.     He 's  very  cautious.  Colonel,  h  'as  kept  it  ever  since. 

Joll.  That's  too  long'ifaith.  Cutter^  prethee  take  one 
disguise  now  more  at  last,  and  put  thy  self  into  the  habit  of  a 
Gentleman. 

Cut.  I  'le  answer  no  more  Prethees ;  Is  this  the  Mornings- 
draught  you  sent  for  me  to  ? 

Joll.     No,  I  ha'  better  news  for  ye  both,  than  ever  ye  had 

S2  a*^^ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

from  a  eood  Irish  hand ;  the  truth  is  I  have  a  Plot  for  yee, 
which  if  it  take,  ye  Shall  no  more  make  monstrous  Tales  from 
Bruges  to  revive  your  sinking  Credits  in  Loyal  Ale-houses,  nor 
inveiele  into  Taverns  young  Foremen  of  the  Shop,  or  little 
beardless  Blades  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  to  drink  to  the  Royal 
Family  Parabolically,  and  with  bouncine  Oathes  like  Cannon 
at  every  Health ;  nor  upon  unlucky  railing  afternoons  take 
melancholy  turns  in  the  Temple  Walks,  and  when  you  meet 
acquaintance,  cry.  You  wonder  why  your  Lawyer  stays  so  long 
with  a  pox  to  him. 

ff^or.  This  Physick  has  stirr'd  ill  humors  in  the  Colonel, 
would  they  were  once  well  purg'd,  and  we  a  Drinking  again 
lovingly  together  as  we  were  wont  to  do. 

yoil.  Nor  make  headless  quarrels  about  the  Reckoning 
time,  and  leave  the  house  in  confusion  ;  nor  when  you  go  to 
bed  produce  ten  several  snuflfs  to  make  up  one  poor  Pipe  o* 
Tobacco  ! 

Cut.  Would  I  had  one  here  now;  I  ha' n't  had  my 
morning  Smoak  yet,  by  this  day  ! 

yoil.  Nor  change  your  names  and  lodgings  as  often  as  a 
Whore  :  for  as  yet  if  ye  liv'd  like  Tartars  in  a  Cart  (as  I  fear 
ye  must  die  in  one)  your  home  could  not  be  more  uncertain. 
To  day  at  fVapping^  and  to  morrow  you  appear  anin  upon 
Mill-bank  (like  a  Duck  that  Dives  at  this  end  of  the  rond,  and 
rises  unexpedledly  at  the  other)  I  do  not  think  Pytbagnrai  his 
Soul  e're  changM  so  many  dwellings  as  you  ha'  done  within 
these  two  years. 

Cut.  Why,  what  then,  Colonel  ?  Soldiers  must  remove 
their  Tents  sometimes,  Alexander  the  Great  did  it  a  thousand 
times. 

Worm.    Nine  hundred.  Cutter^  you  'r  but  a  Dunce  in  Story ; 
But  what's  all  this  to  th'  matter,  Noble  Colonel? 
You  run  a  Wool-gathering  like  a  zealous  Teacher ; 
Where  's  the  use  of  Consolation  that  you  promis'd  us  f 

Joll.     Why  thou  shalt  have  it,  little   Worm^  for  these 
Damn'd  Pills  begin  to  make  me  horrible  sick,  and  are  not  like 
to  allow  of  long  Digressions ;    Thus  briefly  then,  as  befits  a 
man  in  my  case  ! 

When  my  brother  the  Merchant  went  into  Afrupu^  to  follow 
his  great  Trade  there — 

276 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

JVor.  How  o'  Devil  could  he  follow  it  ?  why  he  had  quite 
lost  his  memory ;  I  knew  him  when  he  was  fain  to  carry  his 
own  Name  in  Writing  about  him  for  fear  lest  he  should 
forget  it. 

jM.  Oh  his  man  J^hn^  you  know,  did  all,  yet  still  he 
would  go  about  with  old  'Johriy  and  thought  if  he  did  Go,  he 
did  his  business  himself;  well,  when  he  went  he  left  his 
Daughter  with  a  Portion  o'  five  thousand  pounds  to  my 
Xuition,  and  if  she  married  without  my  consent,  she  was  to 
have  but  a  thousand  of  it.  When  he  was  gon  two  years  he 
d/d— 

Wor.  He  did  a  little  forget  himself  me-thinks,  when  he  left 
the  Estate  in  your  hands,  Collonel. 

JdL  Hold  your  tongue.  Captain  Coxcomb ;  now  the  case 
is  this ;  ye  shall  give  me  a  thousand  pounds  for  my  interest  and 
favour  in  this  business,  settle  the  rest  upon  her,  and  her 
children,  or  me  and  mine,  if  she  ha'  none  (d  'ee  mark  me  ?  for 
I  will  not  have  one  penny  of  the  Principal  pass  through  such 
glewy  Fingers)  upon  these  terms  I  *le  marry  her  to  one  of  you ; 
Alwajrs  provided  though,  that  he  whom  she  shall  choose  (for 
she  shall  have  as  fair  a  choice  as  can  be  between  two  such 
fellows)  shall  give  me  good  assurances  of  living  afterwards  like 
a  Gentleman,  as  befits  her  husband,  and  cast  o£F  the  t'  others 
company  ! 

Cut,  The  Conditions  may  be  admitted  of,  though  if  I  have 
her,  she  '1  ha'  no  ill  bargain  on 't  when  the  King  comes  home ; 
but  how,  Colonel,  if  she  should  prove  a  foolish  fantastical 
Wench,  and  refuse  to  marry  cither  of  us  ? 

*JolL  Why  !  then  she  shall  never  ha'  my  consent  to  marry 
any  body;  and  she'l  be  hang'd,  I  think,  first  in  the  Friars 
Rope,  ere  she  turn  Nun. 

Wor.     I  '1  be  a  Carthusian  an  she  do ! 

'JoU.  If't  were  not  for  Chastity  and  Obedience  thou 
mightest  be  so ;  their  t'  other  Vow  of  never  carrying  any  mony 
about  them,  thou  hast  kept  from  thy  youth  upwards. 

IV^r.  lie  have  her;  I  'me  the  better  Scholar;  and  we're 
both  equal  Soldiers,  I'  me  sure. 

Cut.  Thou,  Captain  Bobadil?  what  with  that  Ember- week 
fiice  o'  thine  ?  that  Rasor  o'  thy  Nose  ?  thou  look'st  as  if  thou 
hadst  never  been  fed  since  thou  suck'st  thy  mother's  milk. 

277 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Thy  cheeks  begin  to  fsil  into  thy  mouth,  that  thou  mightest 
eat  them.  Why  thou  very  Lath,  with  a  thing  cut  h'ke  a  face 
at  Top,  and  a  slit  at  bottom.  I  am  a  man  ha*  serv'd  my  King 
and  Country,  a  person  of  Honor,  Dogbolt,  and  a  Colonel. 

ff^or.  I  es,  as  Priests  are  made  now  a  daies,  a  Colonel  made 
by  thine  own-self.  I  must  confess  thus  much  o'  thy  good 
parts,  thou  *rt  beholding  to  no  body  but  thy  self  for  what  thou 
art.  Thou  a  Soldier?  Did  not  I  see  thee  once  in  a  quarrel  at 
Nine-pins  behind  Sodom-hnc  disarm'd  with  one  o'  the  pins? 
Alas,  good  Cutter!  there's  difference,  as  I  take  it,  betwixt  the 
clattering  o'  Swords  and  Quart-pots,  the  effusion  of  Blood  and 
Claret-wine — 

Cut.     (What  a  Barking  little  Curr 's  this?) 

ff^or.  The  smoak  o'  Guns  and  Tobacco — nor  can  you, 
Cuttevy  fight  the  better,  because  you  ha'  beat  an  old  Bawd  or  a 
Drawer ;  besides,  what  parts  hast  thou  ?  Hast  thou  Scholar- 
ship enough  to  make  a  Brewers  Clark?  Canst  thou  read  the 
Bible  ?  I  'me  sure  thou  hast  not ;  canst  thou  write  more  than 
thine  own  name,  and  that  in  such  vile  Characters,  that  most 
men  take  'em  for  Arabian  Pot-hooks  !  Dost  thou  not  live. 
Cutter^  in  the  Chyma;rian  darkness  of  Ignorance  ? 

JolL     Cymmerian,  Captain,  prethee  let  it  be  Cymmerian  ! 

kVor,  I  \  I  know  some  will  have  it  so ;  but  by  this  light  I 
always  call 't  Chyniaerian  ! 

Cut.  O  brave  Scholar !  has  the  Colonel  caught  you  in  fidse 
Latin,  you  dunce  you  ?  you  'd  e'en  as  good  stick  to  your 
Captainship  \  and  that  you  may  thank  me  for,  you  ingrateful 
Pimp  you,  was  not  I  the  first  that  ever  call'd  you  so  ?  and  said 
you  had  serv'd  stoutly  in  my  Regiment  at  Newberry? 

JolL  Thy  Regiment  ? — well !  leave  your  quarrelling.  Ba- 
boons, and  try  your  fortunes  fairly  ;  I  begin  to  be  very  very 
sick ;  I  'le  leave  you,  and  send  in  my  Niece  to  intertain  you, 
upon  my  life,  if  you  quarrel  any  more,  As  great  Soldiers  as  you 
are,  I  'le  ha'  you  Cashier'd  for  ever  out  o'  this  Garrison  o*  mine, 
look  to 't.  Exit  Col.  Joll. 

IVor.  Come  Cutter^  wee  'd  e'en  better  play  fair  play  with 
one  another,  than  lose  all  to  a  third.  Let 's  draw  Cuts  who 
shall  accost  her  first  when  she  comes  in,  and  the  t'  other  void 
the  room  for  a  little  while. 

Cutt.     Agreed  !  you  may  thank  the  Colonel  for  comming  off 

278 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

SO  easily ;  you  know  well  enough  I  dare  not  offend  him  at  such 
a  time  as  this  ! 

fyor.     The  longest  first —  {Draw  Lots. 

Cut.     Mine !     Od  's  my  life !  here  she  is  already  ! 

Scene  6. 

Lucidj  Cuttery  fVorm, 

Luc.     (7i  her  self  at  her  Entrance,) 
Not  choose  amiss?   indeed  I  must  do,  Uncle, 
If  I  should  choose  again ;  especially, 
If  I  should  do  't  out  of  your  drinking  Company ; 
Though  I  have  seen  these  fellows  here,  I  think 
A  hundred  times,  yet  I  so  much  despise  'em, 
I  never  askt  their  names:  But  I  must  speak  to  'em  now. 
My  Uncle,  Gentlemen,  will  wait  upon  you  presently  again, 
and  sent  me  hither  to  desire  your  patience ! 

Cut.  Patience,  Madam,  will  be  no  virtue  requisite  for  us, 
whilst  you  are  pleas'd  to  stay  here;  Ha,  ha  !  Cutter!  that  lit 
pretty  pat  'ifaith  for  a  beginning.  (JVorm  goes  out. 

Luc.     Is  your  friend  going,  Sir? 

Cut.  Friend,  Madam  ? — (I  hope  I  shall  be  even  with  him 
presently)  he  's  a  merry  fellow  that  your  Uncle  and  I  divert 
our  selves  withall. 

Luc.     What  is  he?    pray  Sir. 

Cut.     That 's  something  difficult  to  tell  you.  Madam ; 

But  he  has  been  all  things.  He  was  a  Scholar  once,  and 
since  a  Merchant,  but  broke  the  first  half  year ;  after  that 
he  serv'd  a  Justice  o'  Peace,  and  from  thence  turn'd  a  kind  o' 
SoUicitor  at  GoUsmiths-ha/I ;  h' as  a  pretty  Smattering  too  in 
Poetry,  and  would  ha'  been  my  Lady  Protectress's  Poet ;  He 
writ  once  a  Copy  in  praise  of  her  Beauty,  but  her  Highness 
gave  him  for  it  but  an  old  Half-crown  piece  in  Gold,  which 
she  had  hoorded  up  before  these  troubles,  and  that  discourag'd 
him  from  any  further  Applications  to  the  Court.  Since  that, 
h  'as  been  a  little  Agitator  for  the  Cavalier  party,  and  drew  in 
one  of  the  'Prentices  that  were  hang'd  lately ;  He  's  a  good 
ingenious  fellow,  that 's  the  truth  on  't,  and  a  pleasant  Droll 
when  h  'as  got  a  cup  o'  Wine  in  his  pate,  which  your  Uncle 

279 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

and  I  supply  him  with ;  but  for  matters  that  concern  the  King 
neither  of  us  trust  him.  Not  that  I  can  say  h  'as  betraid  any 
body,  but  he  *s  so  indigent  a  Varlet,  that  I  *m  afraid  he  would 
sell  his  Soul  to  Oliver  for  a  Noble.  But  Madam,  what  a  pox 
should  we  talk  any  more  o'  that  Mole-catcher?  (Now  I'm 
out  again — I  am  so  us'd  onely  to  ranting  Whores,  that  an 
honest  Gentlewoman  puts  me  to  a  Non-plus !) 

Luc.  Why,  my  Uncle  recommended  him  to  me.  Sir,  as  a 
Person  of  Quality,  and  of  the  same  Condition  with  your  self, 
onely  that  you  had  been  a  Collonel  o'  Foot,  and  he  a  Captain 
of  Horse  in  his  Majesty's  Service. 

Cut.  You  know  your  Uncle's  Drolling  hvunor,  Msulam;  he 
thought  there  was  no  danger  in  the  Raillerie,  and  that  you  'd 
quickly  find  out  what  he  was ;  Here  he  comes  again  {Enter 
tVorm.)  I  'le  leave  him  with  you.  Madam,  for  a  Minute,  and 
wait  upon  you  immediately,  (I  am  at  a  loss,  and  must  recover 
my  self)  Captain,  I  ha'  dealt  better  by  you  than  you  deserv'd, 
and  given  you  a  high  Character  to  her ;  see  you  do  me  right 
too,  if  there  be  occasion — I  '1  make  bold  though  to  hearken 
whether  you  do  or  no.     {Exit  Cutter,  and  stands  at  the  d$re. 

Wor.  Madam,  my  Noble  friend  your  Uncle  has  been  pleas'd 
to  honor  me  so  far  with  his  good  Opinion,  as  to  allow  me  the 
liberty  to  kiss  your  hands. 

Luc.     You  r  welcome.  Sir,  but  pray.  Sir,  give  me  leave 
Before  you  enter  into  farther  Complement 
To  ask  one  question  of  you. 

IVor.     I  shall  resolve  you.  Madam,  with  that  truth 
Which  may,  I  hope,  invite  you  to  believe  me 
In  what  I  me  to  say  afterwards. 

Luc.  'Tis  to  tell  me  your  friends  Name,  Sir,  and  his 
Quality,  which,  though  I  have  seen  him  oft,  I  am  yet  ignorant 
of:  I  suppose  him  to  be  some  honorable  person,  who  has 
eminently  serv'd  the  King  in  the  late  Wars. 

Cut,  {at  the  door)  'Tis  a  shrewd  discerning  Wench,  she 
has  hit  me  right  already  ! 

fVor.  They  call  him  Collonel  Cutter^  but  to  deal  fiiithfully 
with  you.  Madam,  he 's  no  more  a  Colonel  than  you  'r  a  Major 
General. 

Cut.     Ha !   sure  I  mistake  the  Rogue  ! 

fVor.     He  never  serv'd  his  King,  not  he,  no  more  than  he 

280 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

does  his  Maker ;  Tis  true,  h  'as  drunk  his  Health  as  often 
as  any  man,  upon  other  men's  charges,  and  he  was  for  a  little 
while,  I  think,  a  kind  of  He£lor,  'till  he  was  soimdly  beaten 
one  day,  and  dragg'd  about  the  room,  like  old  HeSfor  o'  Troy 
about  the  Town. 

Cut.     What  does  this  Dog  mean,  trow  ? 

JVor.  Once  indeed  he  was  very  low  for  almost  a  twelve- 
month, and  had  neither  mony  enough  to  hire  a  Barber,  nor 
buy  Sizars,  and  then  he  wore  a  Beard  (he  said)  for  King  Charts ; 
he's  now  in  pretty  good  cloathes,  but  would  you  saw  the 
furniture  of  his  Chamber !  marry  half  a  Chair,  an  Earthen 
Chamberpot  without  an  Ear,  and  the  bottom  of  an  Ink-horn 
for  a  Candle-stick,  the  rest  is  broken  foul  Tobacco-pipes,  and  a 
dozen  o'  Gally-pots  with  Sawse  in  'em. 

Cut     Was  there  ever  such  a  cursed  Villain ! 

ff^w.  H'as  been  a  known  Cheat  about  the  Town  these 
twenty  years. 

Ltic.  What  does  my  Uncle  mean  to  keep  him  company,  if 
he  be  such  a  one  ? 

ff^or.  Why  he's  in&tuated  !  I  think,  I  ha'  wam'd  him 
on't  a  thousand  times ;  he  has  some  wit  (to  give  the  devil  his 
due)  and  that  'tis  makes  us  endure  him,  but  however  I'd  advise 
your  Uncle  to  be  a  little  more  cautious  how  he  talks  before  him 
o*  State  matters,  for  he's  shrewdly  wrong'd  if  he  be  n't  Crom- 
%uef%  Agent  for  all  the  Taverns  between  Kings-street  and  the 
Devil  at  Tempie^har^  indeed  he's  a  kind  o'  Resident  in  'em. 

Cut.  Flesh  and  blood  can  bear  no  longer — JVorniy  you'r  a 
stinkine,  lying,  perjur'd,  damn'd  Villain;  and  if  I  do  not  bring 
you.  Madam,  his  Nose  and  both  his  Ears,  and  lay  'em  at  your 
feet  here  before  night,  may  the  Pillory  and  the  Pox  take  mine ; 
till  then,  suspend  your  judgment.  Exit  Cutter. 

Luc.     Nay,    you'r    both    even;     just    such    an    excellent 
Character  did  he  bestow  on  you ;    Why,  thou  vile  Wretch, 
Go  to  the  Stews,  the  Gaol,  and  there  make  love, 
Thou'lt  find  none  there  but  such  as  will  scorn  thee! 

War.  Whv  here's  brave  work  i'feith !  I  ha'  carri'd  it 
swimmingly,  I'le  e'en  go  steal  away  and  drink  a  dozen  before  I 
venture  to  think  one  thought  o'  the  business.  Exit. 

Luc.     Go  cursed  race,  which  stick  your  loathsome  crimes 
Upon  the  Honorable  Cause  and  Party; 

281 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  to  the  Noble  Loyal  Su^rers, 

A  worser  sufiering  add  of  Hate  and  Infamy. 

Go  to  the  Robbers  and  the  Parricides, 

And  fix  your  Spots  upon  their  Painted  Vizards, 

Not  on  the  native  face  of  Innocence. 

Tis  you  retard  that  Industry  by  which 

Our  Country  would  recover  from  this  sickness  j 

Which,  whilst  it  fears  th'  eruption  of  such  Ulcers, 

Keeps  a  Disease  tormenting  it  within, 

But  if  Icind  Heav'n  please  to  restore  our  Health, 

When  once  the  great  Physician  shall  return, 

He  quickly  will  I  hope  restore  our  Beauty. 

A&  2.     Scene    i. 

Aurelia. 

I    See  'tis  no  small  part  of  policy 
To  keep  some  little  Spies  in  an  Enemies  quarters : 
The  Parliament  had  reason— 

I  would  not  for  five  hundred    pounds  but   ha'  corrupted  Diy 
Cousin  Lucia's  Maid;  and  yet  it  costs  me  nothing  but  Sack- 
possets,  and  Wine,  and  Sugar  when  her  Mistris  is  a  bed,  and 
tawd'ry  Ribbonds,  or  fine  Trimm'd  Gloves  sometimes,  and 
once  I  think  a  pair  of  Counterfeit  Ruble  Pendants 
That  cost  me  half  a  Crown.      The  poor  Wench  loves 
Dy'd  Glass  like  any  Indian ;  for  a  Diamond  Bob  I'd  have  her 
Ma[i]denhead  if  I  were  a  Man  and  she  a  Maid.    If  her  Mistris 
did  but  talk  in  her  sleep  sometimes,  o'  my  conscience  she'd  sit 
up  all  night  and  watch  her,  onely  to  tell  me  in  the  morning 
what   she   said ;    'Tis   the  prettiest   diligent  Wretch    in   her 
Calling,  now  she  has  undertaken't. 
Her  intelligence  just  now  was  very  good,  and 
May  be  o'  consequence ;  That  young  Truman  is 
Stoln  up  the  back  way  into  my  Cousin's  Chamber. 
These  are  your  grave  Maids  that  study  Romances,  and  will  be 
all  Mandanas  and  Cauandrat,  and  never  spit  but  by  the  Rules 
of  Honor ;  Oh,  here  she  comes,  I  hope,  with  fresh  intelligence 
from  the  Foe's  Rendevouz. 
282 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 


Scene  2. 

Aurelioj  Jane. 

yane.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  for  the  love  of  goodness  hold  me,  or  I 
shall  &11  down  with  laughing,  ha,  ha,  ha !  'Tis  the  best  humor 
— no — I  can't  tell  it  you  for  laughing — ha,  ha,  ha  !  the  prettiest 
sport,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

jfur.  Why,  thou  hast  not  seen  him  lie  with  her,  hast  thou  ? 
The  Wench  is  mad;    prethee  what  is't? 

yane.  Why  (hee,  hei,  ha  !)  My  Mistris  sits  by  her  Servant 
in  a  long  Veil  that  covers  her  from  Top  to  Toe,  and  says  not 
one  word  to  him,  because  of  the  Oath  you  know  that  the  old 
man  forc'd  his  son  to  take  after  your  Father  had  forbid  him  the 
house,  and  he  talks  half  an  hour,  like  an  Ass  as  he  is,  all  alone, 
and  looks  upon  her  hand  all  the  while,  and  kisses  it.  But  that 
which  makes  me  die  with  laughing  at  the  conceit  (ha,  ha,  ha  !) 
is,  that  when  he  asks  her  anything,  she  goes  to  the  Table,  and 
writes  her  answer;  you  never  saw  such  an  innocent  Puppet- 
play  ! 

Aur,  Dear  yane  (kiss  me,  yane^  how  shall  I  do  to  see 
*em? 

yan.  Why,  Madam,  I'l  go  look  the  key  of  my  Mistris 
Closet  above,  that  looks  into  her  Chamber,  where  you  may  see 
all,  and  not  be  seen. 

Aur.  Why  that's  as  good  as  the  trick  o'  the  Veil ;  do,  dear 
Jane^  quickly,  'twill  make  us  excellent  sport  at  night,  and  we'l 
mddle  our  Noses  together,  shall  we,  dear  yane  ? 

yane.     I,  dear  Madam  !    I'l  go  seek  out  the  key. 

Exit  yane. 

Aur.  *Tis  strange,  if  this  trick  o'  my  Cousins  should  beget 
no  trick  o'  mine.  That  would  be  pittiful  dul  doings. 


283 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Scene  3. 

Aurelia^  Mr.  Puny. 

Aur.  Here  comes  another  of  her  Servants ;  a  jroiing  rich, 
fantastical  Fop,  that  would  be  a  Wit,  and  has  got  a  new  waj 
of  being  so  ;  he  scorns  to  speak  any  thing  that's  common,  and 
finds  out  some  impertinent  similitude  for  every  thing.  The 
Devil  I  think  can't  find  out  one  for  him.  This  Coxcomb  has 
so  little  Brains  too,  as  to  make  me  the  Confident  of  his  Amours, 
rie  thank  him  for  his  Confidence  ere  I  ha'  done  with  him. 

Pun.  Whose  here  ?  O  Madam  !  is  your  father  out  of  his 
Metaphorical  Grave  yet  ?  you  understand  my  meaning,  my 
dear  Confident  ?   you'r  a  Wit ! 

Aur.     Like  what,  Mr.  Puny? 

Pun.     Why — like — me  ! 

Aur.  That's  right  your  way,  Mr.  Puny^  its  an  odd 
similitude. 

Pun.  But  where's  your  Father  little  Queen  o'  Diamonds? 
is  he  extant  ?  I  long  like  a  Woman  big  with  Twins  to  speak 
with  him  ! 

Aur.  You  can't  now  possibly:  There  was  never  any 
Creature  so  sick  with  a  disease  as  he  is  with  Physick,  to  day,  the 
Doctor  and  the  'Pothecarie's  with  him,  and  will  let  no  body 
come  in.     But,  Mr.  Punyy  I  have  words  o'  comfort  for  you ! 

Pun.  What,  my  dear  Queen  o'  Sheba!  and  I  have  Ophir 
for  thee  if  thou  hast. 

Aur.  Why  your  Rival  is  forbid  our  house,  and  has  sworn  to 
his  father  never  to  see  or  hear  your  Mistris  more. 

Pun.  I  knew  that  yesterday  as  well  as  I  knew  my  Cmb^ 
but  I  'm  the  very  Jew  of  Malta  if  she  did  not  use  mc  since 
that,  worse  than  I  'de  use  a  rotten  Apple. 

Aur.  Why  that  can  't  be.  Brother  Wit,  why  that  were 
uncivilly  done  of  her  ! 

Pun.  O  hang  her.  Queen  of  Fairies,  (I'm  all  for  Queens 
to  day  I  think)  she  cares  much  for  that ;  No,  that  Assyrian 
Crocodile  Truman  is  still  swimming  in  her  praecordiums,  but 
I  'le  so  ferret  him  out ;  I  '1  beat  him  as  a  Bloomsbury  Whore 

284 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

beats  Hemp ;  I  '1  spoil  his  Grave  Dominical  Postures ;  I  '1 
make  him  sneak,  and  look  like  a  door  off  the  hinges. 

Aur,  That 's  hard  !  but  he  deserves  it  truly,  if  he  strive 
to  Annihilate. 

Pun.  Why  well  said.  Sister  Wit,  now  thou  speak'st 
oddlv  too  ! 

jiur.  Well,  without  wit  or  foolery,  Mr.  Punyy  what  will 
you  give  me,  if  this  night,  this  very  improbable  night,  I  make 
you  Marry  my  Cousin  Lucia  ? 

Pun.  Thou  talk'st  like  Medusa^s  head,  thou  astonishest 
me. 

Aur.  Well,  in  plain  language  as  befits  a  Bargain ;  there 's 
Pen  and  Inck  in  the  next  Chamber,  give  but  a  Bill  under  your 
hand  to  pay  me  five  hundred  pounds  in  Gold  (upon  forfeiture 
of  a  thousand  if  you  tixX)  within  an  hour  after  the  business 
is  done,  and  I  M  be  bound  Body  for  Body  my  Cousin  Lucia 
shall  be  your  Wife  this  night ;  if  I  deceive  you,  your  Bond  will 
do  you  no  hurt,  if,  I  do  not,  consider  a  little  before-hand, 
whether  the  Work  deserves  the  Reward,  and  do  as  you  think 
fit. 

Pun.  There  shall  be  no  more  considering  than  in  a  Hasty 
Pudding ;  I  '1  write  it  an'  you  will,  in  Short-hand,  to  dispatch 
immediately,  and  presently  go  put  five  hundred  Mari-golds  in  a 
purse  for  you.  Come  away  like  an  Arrow  out  of  a  Scythian 
Bow. 

Aur.  I  '1  do  your  business  for  you,  I  '1  warrant  you ;  Allans 
Mmt-Cber.  Exeunt. 


Scene  4. 

Cutter^  Worm. 

Cut.  Now  I  ha*  thee  at  the  place,  where  thou  afironted'st 
me,  here  will  I  cut  thy  throat. 

Wvr.     You*l  be  hang'd  first. 

Cut.     No  by  this  light. 

Wvr.     You*I  be  hang'd  after  then. 

Cut.  Not  so  neither ;  for  I  '1  hew  thee  into  so  many 
monebi  that  the  Crowner  shall  not  be  able  to  give  his  Verdict 

285 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

whether  'twas  the  Body  of  a  Man  or  of  a  Beast,  as  thou  art 
Thou  shalt  be  mince-meat,  ff^orm^  within  this  hour. 

JVor,  He  was  a  Coward  once,  nor  have  I  ever  heard  one 
syllable  since  of  his  Reformation,  he  shall  not  daunt  me. 

Cut,  Come  on ;  [^DrawsJ]  I  '1  send  thee  presently  to 
Erebus  without  either  Bail  or  Main-prize. 

fVor.  Have  at  you.  Cutter^  an'  thou  hadst  as  many  lives  as 
are  in  Plutarchy  I  'd  make  an  end  of  'em  all. 

Cut,     Come  on,  Miscreant. 

IFor,     Do,  do!   strike  an'  thou  dar'st. 

Cut,  Coward,  I  '1  give  thee  the  advantage  of  the  first 
push,  Coward. 

fVor,     I  scorn  to  take  anything  o'  thee,  Jew. 

Cut,  If  thou  dar'st  not  strike  nrst,  thou  submitt'st,  and  I 
give  thee  thy  life. 

fVor,  Remember,  Cutter^  you  were  treacherous  first  to  mc, 
and  therefore  must  begin.  Come,  pox  upon  't,  this  quarrel 
will  cost  us  quarts  o'  Wine  a  piece  before  the  Treaty  o'  Peace 
be  ended. 

Cut,  Here 's  company  coming  in  ;  I  '1  hear  o'  no  Treaties, 
fVorm^  we'l  fight  it  out. 


Scene  5. 

Aureliay  Puny^  Cutter^  Worm, 

Aur,       [Reading.]       Five    hundred    neat    Gentlemen- like 
twenty-shilling  pieces,  though   never  wash'd  nor  barbM — 
A    curse   upon    him,  cann't  he  write  a  Bond  without  these 
sotteries  ? 

Pun,  Why  how  now  Panims  ?  fighting  like  two  Sea^fish  in 
the  Map  ?  Why  how  now  my  little  Gallimaufry,  my  0A#- 
podrido  of  Arts  and  Arms  ;  Hola  the  feirce  Gudgings  ! 

Aur.  'Ods  my  life,  Puny^  let 's  go  in  again ;  that  *s  the 
onely  way  to  part  *em. 

Pun,  Do,  do !  kill  one  another  and  be  hang'd  like  Ropes 
of  Onyons. 

Cut.     At  your  command  ?  no.  Puny !    I  'le  be  forc'd  by  no 

286 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

man;  put  up,  fVorm\  we'l  fight  for  no  man's  pleasure  but 
our  own. 

ff^or.  Agreed !  I  won't  make  sport  with  murdering  any 
man,  an'  he  were  a  Turk. 

Pun.  Why  now  ye  speak  h'ke  the  Pacifique  Sea ;  we  '1  to 
the  King's  Poleanon,  and  drink  all  into  Pylades  again;  we'l 
drink  up  a  whole  Vessel  there  to  Redintegration,  and  that  so 
big,  that  the  Tun  of  Heidelberg  shall  seem  but  a  Barel  of 
Pickled  Oisters  to 't ;  mean  time,  thou  pretty  little  Smith  o'  my 
good  fortune,  beat  hard  upon  the  Anvil  of  your  Plot,  I  '1  go  and 
provide  the  Spankers.  Exit  Puny, 

Cut,  Your  Cousin,  Mrs.  Aurelia^  has  abus'd  us  most 
irreverently. 

Aur.     Why  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Cut.     Your  fether  recommended  us  two  as  Suters  to  her. 

Aur.  And  she  'd  ha'  none  of  you  ?  What  a  foolish  Girl 
'tis, '  to  stand  in  her  own  light  so  ! 

JVor.  I^slYj  that 's  not  all,  but  she  us'd  us  worse  than  if 
we'd  been  the  veriest  Rogues  upon  the  face  of  the  whole 
Earth. 

Aur.  That 's  a  little  thought  too  much,  but  'twas  safer 
erring  o'  that  hand. 

Cut.     I,  we'r  like  to  get  much,  I  see,  by  complaining  to  you. 

Enter  yane. 

Jan.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Here 's  the  key  o'  the  Closet,  go  up 
sonly.  Madam,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  and  make  no  noise,  dear  Madam,  I 
must  be  gone.  Exit. 

Aur.  Why  does  this  little  Foppitee  laugh  always  ?  'tis  such 
a  Nmny  that  she  betrays  her  Mistris,  and  thinks  she  does  no 
hurt  at  all,  no,  not  she ;  well,  wretched  Lovers,  come  along 
with  me  now,  (but  softly  upon  your  lives,  as  you  would  steal  to 
a  Mistris  through  her  Mothers  Chamber)  and  I  '1  shew  you 
this  severe  Pemlope^  lockt  up  alone  in  a  Chamber  with  your 
Rival. 

Cut.     As  softly  as  Snow  falls. 

Wor.     Or  Vapors  rise. 

Aur.  What  are  you  Punish  too  with  your  Similitudes  ? 
Mum — not  a  word — pull  off  your  shoes  at  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  and  follow  me. 

287 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Scene  6. 

Enter  Truman  junior. 

And  presently  Aurelia,  Cutter,  and  Worm   appear  at  a  Rttlt 

Window. 

Trum.     Why  should  her  cruel  Uncle  seek  t*  oppose 
A  Love  in  all  respe£ls  so  good  and  equal  ? 
He  has  some  wicked  end  in  't,  and  deserves 
To  be  deceiv'd  ! 

Cut.     Deceiv'd  ?  pray  mark  that  Madam. 

Trum,     She  is  gone  in  to  see  if  things  be  ripe  yet 
To  make  our  last  attempt  upon  her  Uncle ; 
If  our  Plot  fail- 

Jur.     A  Plot  'i faith,  and  I  shall  Counter-plot  yc. 

Trum,     In  spight  of  our  worst  Enemies,  our  kindred. 
And  a  rash  Oath  that 's  cancell'd  in  the  making, 
We  will  pursue  our  Loves  to  the  last  point. 
And  buy  that  Paradise  though  't  be  with  Martyrdom  ! 


Scene  7. 

Enter  Lucia. 

She  goes  to  the   Table  and  Writes  whilst  he  Speaks^  and  gives 

him  the  Paper. 

Trum.     She 's  come,  me-thinks  I  see  her  through  her  Veil ; 
She  's  naked  in  my  heart  with  all  her  Beauties. 

Wor.     Thou  hast  a  Bawdy  heart  I'le  warrant  thee. 

Cut.     Hold  your  peace.  Coxcomb. 

Trum.     That  has,  I  think,  taken  an  Oath 
Quite  contrary  to  mine,  never  to  see 
Any  thing  else  ! 

He 's  extreme  sick,  and  thinks  he  shall  die,  [Reads  a  paper  given 
him  by  Lucia],  the  Dodtor  and  'Pothecary  have  afted  very  well; 
I  'le  be  with  him  presently,  go  into  my  little  Oratory,  and 

288 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

prajr  for  the  success — [yf  cry  within^  Mrs.  Aurelia.]  I  *1  pray 
with  as  much  zeal  as  any  sinner,  converted  just  upon  the  point 
of  dea[t]h,  prays  his  short  time  out. 

[Exeunt  Truman  &  Lucia. 
jfur.     What  can  this  mean  ?  [They  cry  within.']  and  the  cry 
within  there  ?  pray  let  *s  go  down  and  see  what 's  the  matter. 

Enter  Will  and  Ralph  crying. 

fFilL  Ah,  Lord  !  my  poor  Master  !  Mrs.  Aunliay  Mrs. 
Aurelia. 

Aur.     Here,  what 's  the  business  ? 

Ralph.     Oh  Lord  !    the  saddest  accident. 

Aur.     For  the  love  of  Heaven  speak  quickly. 

Will.  I  cannot  speak  for  weeping;  my  poor  Master's 
poison'd. 

Aur.     Poison'd  ?  how  prethee,  and  by  whom  ? 

Will.     Why  by  the  strangest  Accident,  Mistris. 
The  Dodtor  prescrib'd  one  what  dee'  call  it  with  a  hard  name, 
and  that  careless  Rogue  the  'Pothecaries  man  (mistaking  one 
Glass  for  another  that  stood  by  it)  put  in  another  what  dee'  call 
it,  that  is  a  mortal  poison. 

Aur.  Oh  then  'tis  plain,  this  was  the  Plot  they  talk'd  of ; 
ye  heard.  Gentlemen,  what  they  said ;  pray  follow  me  and 
bear  witness.  Exit  Aurelia. 

Cut.  Undoubtedly  they  had  a  hand  in 't ;  we  shall  be 
brought  to  swear  against  them,  Worm. 

Worm.  I  '1  swear  what  I  heard,  and  what  I  heard  not  but 
I  '1  hang  'em.  I  see  I  shall  be  revenged  o'  that  proud  Tit ;  but 
it  grieves  me  for  the  Colonel. 

Scene  8. 

Colonel  Jolly  {brought  in  a  Chair)  Aurelia,  Cutter,  Worm, 

Will,  Ralph,  other  Servants. 

Joll.  Oh  !  I  ha'  vomited  out  all  my  guts,  and  all  my 
entrails — 

Aur.     Oh  my  dear  Father ! 

?olL     I  'm  ^ing,  daughter — ha'  ye  sent  the  pocky  Dodlor 
the  plaguy  'rothecary  to  a  Justice  o'  Peace  to  be  examin'd  ? 

C  II.  T  289 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Ye^  Sir,  jroor  Worship's  Steward  and  the  Constable 
are  cone  with  'cm ;  docs  jour  Wonhip  think  they  did  it  out  o' 
mahce,  and  not  bjr  a  misiakr  ?  if  I  had  thought  they  did,  I M  a 
hanged  *eni  presently,  that  you  might  ha*  seen  it  done  before 
yoo  dy  d« 

7fZ/L  Huh,  huh,  huh  !  I  think  that  Rogue  the  Dodor  did 
it,  because  I  beat  him  t'  other  day  in  our  drinking !  huh, 
huh,  huh ! 

Amr.  No,  Sir,  (O  my  dear  father)  no,  Sir,  you  little  think 
who  were  the  Contrivers  of  your  murder,  e'en  my  Cousin  Luct 
and  her  Gallant — Oh  Lord — *t»  discover'd  by  a  miraculous 
proridence — they  V  both  together  in  her  Chamber  now,  and 
there  we  orerhcard  *em  as  it  pleasM — these  two  Gentlemen 
heard  'em  as  wdl  as  I — 

J%IL  Can  they  be  such  Monsters  ?  Oh  !  I  *m  as  hot  as 
Lmcifer — Oh — Oh — !  what  did  you  hear  'cm  say  ? — Oh  mjr 
stomach  ! 

Cut.     Why  that  they  had  a  Plot — 

Aur,  And  that  the  Dodlor  and  'Pothecary  had  done  it 
rerr  well. 

tVir.  I  and  your  Niece  ask'd  if  he  thought  the  Poison  were 
strong  enough. 

Aur.     There  never  was  such  an  Impudence  ! 

IVilL  How  murder  will  out  !  I  always  thought,  fellow 
Ralphy  your  Mistris  Lucia  was  naught  with  that  young  smooth- 
fac'd  Varlct ;  do  you  remember,  Ralph^  what  I  told  you  in  the 
Butteries  once  r 

Aur.     Here  she  comes  !     O  Impudence  !  \Enter  Lucia. 

JM.  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  ! — go  all  aside  a  little^  and  let  me 
spGik  with  her  alone.  Come  hither,  Niece — Oh  !  Oh — !  you 
see  by  what  accident 't  has  pleas'd — huh — huh — huh — to  take 
away  your  loving  Uncle,  Niece  !  huh — 

Luc,  I  see 't.  Sir,  with  that  grief  which  your  misfortune  and 
mine  in  the  loss  of  you  does  require. 

Cut.  There 's  a  Devil  for  you  ;  but.  Captain,  (Joll.  ani 
Luc.  talk  t$getbfr.)  did  you  hear  her  speak  o*  poison,  and 
whether  it  were  strong  enough  ? 

fV$r.  No,  but  I  love  to  strike  home,  when  I  do  a  business, 
I  'm  for  through^tich  ;  I  'm  through  pac'd,  what  a  pox  should 
a  man  stand  mincing  i 

290 


CUTTER   OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Luc,     I  hope,  Sir,  and  have  feith,  that  you  '1  recover  ! 
But,  Sir,  because  the  danger 's  too  apparent, 
And  who  (alas)  knows  how  Heaven  may  dispose  of  you  ?  before 
it  grow  too  late  (after  your  blessing)  I  humbly  beg  one  Boon 
upon  my  knees. 

yolL  What  is't  (rise  up  Niece)  Oh — I  can  deny  you 
nothing  at  this  time  sure  ! 

Luc.     It  is  (I  wo' not  rise.  Sir,  till  you  grant  it) 
That  since  the  love  'twixt  Truman  and  my  self 
Has  been  so  fixt,  and  like  our  fortunes  equal. 
Ye  would  be  pleas'd  to  sign  before  your  death. 
The  confirmation  of  that  Love,  our  Contradl, 
And  when  your  Soul  shall  meet  above,  my  Others, 
As  soon  as  he  has  bid  you  welcome  thither, 
He'i  thank  you  for  this  goodness  to  his  daughter; 
I  do  conjure  you.  Sir,  by  his  memory  ! 
By  all  your  hopes  of  happiness  hereafter ! 
In  a  better  world  !  and  all  your  dearest  wishes  of  happiness  for 
those  whom  ye  love  most,  and  leave  behind  you  here  ! 

yolL  You  ha'  deserv'd  so  well  o'  me  Niece,  that  'tis  impos- 
sible to  deny  you  any  thing  ;  where 's  gentle  Mr.  Truman  r 

Luc.     In  the  next  room,  Sir,  waiting  on  your  will 
As  on  the  Sentence  of  his  life  and  death  too. 

Zoll.     Oh — I  'm  very  sick — pray  bring  him  in. 
uc.     A  thousand  Angels  guard  your  life.  Sir  ! 
Or  if  you  die,  carry  you  up  to  heaven.  [Exit. 

Wor.     Was  there  ever  such  a  young  dissembling  Witch  ? 
Cut.     Here  *s  Woman  in  perfeftion  ! 
The  Devil's  in  their  tails  and  in  their  tongues ! 
Thejjr  *re]  possest  both  ways ! 

J  oil.  fVilly  Ralphy  is  Jeremy  there  too  ?  be  ready  when  I 
sp«dc  to  you. 

Enter  Truman,  Lucia,  {veird.) 

Trum.  Our  prayers  are  heard,  'tis  as  we  wish'd,  dear  Lucioy 
Oh  this  blest  hour ! 

yoll.  Take  him  and  carry  him  up  to  the  Green  Chamber — 
On  my  belly — lock  him  in  sure  there,  till  you  see  what  becomes 
of  me ;   if  I  do  die,  he  and  his  Mistris  shall  have  but  an  ill 

T2  2()i 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Match  of  it  at  Tyburn.     Oh  my  Guts — lock  up  Luce  too  in 
her  Chamber. 

Trum.     What  do  ye  mean,  Gentlemen  ?  are  jre  mad  i 

WtlL  We  mean  to  lock  you  up  safe,  Sir,  for  a  great  Jewel 
as  you  are ! 

Luc.     Pray  hear  me  all. 

JolL     Away  with  'em. 

Exit  all  the  ServantSy  with  Truman  and  Lucia 

several  ways. 

Aur.  How  do  you,  Sir?  I  hope  you  may  o're-come  it, 
your  Nature's  strong,  Sir. 

yolU  No,  'tis  impossible ;  and  yet  I  find  a  little  ease,  but 
'tis  but  a  flash — Aurelia — Oh  there  it  wrings  me  again — fetch 
me  the  Cordial-glass  in  the  Cabinet  window,  and  the  little 
Prayer-book ;  I  would  &in  repent,  but  it  comes  so  hardly — I 
am  very  unfit  to  die,  if  it  would  please  Heaven — so,  set  down 
the  Glass — there — give  me — 

Aur.    The  Prayer-book,  Sir,'s  all  mouldy,  I  must  wipe  it  first. 

^olL  Lay  it  down  too — so — it  begins  t'  asswage  a  little — 
there  lay  down  the  Book ;  'twill  but  trouble  my  Brains  now 
I'm  a  dying. 

Enter  Will. 

Will.  Here 's  the  Widow,  Sir,  without,  and  Mrs.  Tahitha 
her  daughter,  they  have  heard  o'  your  misfortune,  and  ha' 
brought  Mr.  Knock-down  to  comfort  you. 

yoll.  How?  everlasting  Knock-down!  will  they  trouble  a 
Man   thus  when   he 's  a  dying  ?    Sirrah  !    Blockhead  !    let  in 

?oseph  Knock-down^  and  I  '1  send  thee  to  Heaven  afore  me ; 
have  but  an  hour  or  two  to  live  perhaps,  and  that's  not 
enough  for  him  I  'm  sure  to  preach  in ! 
Will.  Shall  Mrs.  Barebottle  come  in.  Sir? 
yoll.  That 's  a  She  Knock-down  too  ;  well,  let  her  come  in 
— huh  !  huh  !  huh  !  I  must  bear  all  things  patiently  now; 
but  Sirrah,  Rogue !  take  heed  o'  Joseph  Knock-down^  thou  shalt 
not  live  with  ears  if  Joseph  Knock-down  enter. 

Enter  Widow,  Tabitha. 

Wid.  How  de'  you  Neighbour  Colonel  ?  how  is 't  ?  take 
comfort. 

292 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

yolL     Cut  ofiF  in  the  flower  o'  my  age  Widow. 

jyid.  Why,  Man's  life  is  but  a  Flower,  Mr.  Joliyj  and  the 
Flower  withers,  and  Man  withers,  as  Mr.  Knock-^own  observ'd 
last  Sabbath-day  at  Evening  Exercise ;  But,  Neighbour,  you  'r 
past  the  Flower,  you  'r  grown  old  as  well  as  I — 

?olL     V  the  very  flower;  that  damn'd  Quack-salver — 
abith.     Me-thoughts   he  was  the  ugliest  fellow.  Mother, 
And  they  say  he*s  a  Papish  too,  forsooth. 

JVid.  I  never  liked  a  Do6tor  with  a  Red  Nose ;  my 
Husband  was  wont  to  say — how  do  you,  Mrs.  Aurelia?  comfort 
your  self,  we  must  all  die  sooner  or  later;  to  day  here,  to 
morrow  gone. 

JolL  Oh  the  torture  of  such  a  tongue  !  would  I  were  dead 
already,  and  this  my  Funeral  Sermon. 

Wid.  Alas  poor  man  !  his  tongue  I  warrant  yee  is  hot  as 
passes;  vou  have  a  better  memory  than  I,  Tahitha^  tell  him 
what  Mr.  Knock-down  said  was  a  Saints  duty  in  tormenting 
sicknesses,  now  Poison  's  a  great  tormentor. 

JoU.  Oh  !  Oh ! — this  additional  Poison  will  certainly  make 
an  end  of  me ! 

Wid.  Why  seek  for  spiritual  Incomes,  Mr.  Colonel ;  I  '1 
tell  you  what  my  Husband  Barebottie  was  wont  to  observe  (and 
he  was  a  Colonel  too)  he  never  sought  for  Incomes  but  he  had 
some  Blessing  followed  immediately ;  once  he  sought  for  *em 
in  Hartfordshire^  and  the  next  day  he  took  as  many  Horses  and 
Arms  in  the  Country  as  serv'd  to  raise  three  Troops ;  another 
time  he  sought  for  *em  in  Buck/ershuryj  and  three  days  after  a 
friend  of  his,  that  he  owed  five  hundred  pounds  too,  was 
hang'd  for  a  Malignant,  and  the  Debt  forgiven  him  by  the 
Parliament ;  a  third  time  he  sought  for  'em  in  Hartford- 
shire — 

Tabith.     No,   Mother,  'twas  in  IVorcester-shirey  forsooth. 

Wid,  I,  Child,  it  was  indeed  in  fVorcester-shire  ;  and  within 
two  months  after  the  Dean  of  JVorcester'^s  Estate  fell  to  him. 

yolL  He  sought  for  'em  once  out  o'  my  Estate  too,  I  thank 
him ;  Oh  my  head  ! 

fVid.  Why  trulv.  Neighbour  Colonel,  he  had  that  but  for 
his  Penny,  and  would  have  had  but  a  hard  Bargain  of  it,  if  he 
had  not  by  a  friend's  means  of  the  Councel  hook'd  in  two 
thousand  pounds  of  his  Arrears. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut.  For  shame  let 's  relieve  him  ;  Colonel,  you  said  you 
had  a  mind  to  settle  some  affairs  of  your  Estate  with  me,  and 
Captain  fVorm  here. 

JVid,  I'l  leave  you  then  for  a  while,  pray  send  for  me, 
Neighbor,  when  you  have  a  mind  to*t  Heaven  strengthen 
you ;  come,  Tahitha. 

yoil.  Aurelia^  go  out  with  them,  and  leave  us  three  together 
for  half  an  hour.  [Exit  Wid.  Tab.  Aur. 

Stay  you,  fVill^  and  reach  me  the  Cordial ;  I  begin  to  hope 
that  my  extreme  violent  fit  of  Vomiting  and  Purging  has 
wrought  out  all  the  Poison,  and  sav'd  my  life — my  rain's 
almost  quite  gone,  but  I'm  so  sore  and  h\nt — give  me  the 
Glass. 

fVor.  What  d'  you  mean.  Colonel  ?  you  will  not  doat,  I 
hope,  now  you  'r  dying  ?  drink  I  know  not  what  there,  made 
by  a  Doctor  and  a  'Pothecary  ?  Drink  a  cup  o'  Sack,  Man ; 
healing  Sack  ;  you  '1  find  your  old  Antidote  best. 

Cut,  H  'as  reason,  Colonel,  it  agrees  best  with  your  nature; 
'tis  good  to  recover  your  strength — as  for  the  danger,  that's 
past,  I  'm  confident,  already. 

yoL  Dost  thou  think  so,  honest  Cutter  ?  fetch  him  a  Bottle 
o'  Sack,  IViliy  for  that  news ;  I  'le  drink  a  little  my  self^ 
one  little  Beer-glass. 

Cut,     Poor  creature  !    he  would  try  all  ways  to  live  ! 

Joll,  Why  if  I  do  die,  Cutter^  a  Glass  o'  Sack  will  do  me 
no  hurt  I  hope  ;  I  do  not  intend  to  die  the  Whining  way,  like 
a  Girl  that 's  afraid  to  lead  Apes  in  Hell — [Enter  Will,  with  a 
Bottle  and  great  Glass,]  So,  give  it  me ;  a  little  fuller, — ^yet 
— it  warms  exceedingly — and  is  very  Cordial. — So, — fill  to  the 
Gentlemen. 

ff^or,    [Sings,]     Let 's  drink,  let 's  drink,  whilst  breath  we 
have ; 
You'l  find  but  cold,  but  cold  drinking  in  the  Grave. 

Cut,     A  Catch   i'   faith !    Boy,  go  down.  Boy,  go  down. 
And  fill  us  t'other  quart. 
That  we  may  drink  the  Colonel's  health. 

ff^or.     That  we  may  drink  the  Colonel's  health. 

Both,     Before  that  we  do  part. 

ff^or.     Why  dost  thou  frown,  thou  arrant  Clown? 
Hey  boyes — Tope — 

294 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

JolL  Why  this  is  very  cheerly!  pray  let's  ha*  the  Catch 
that  we  made  t*  other  night  against  the  Do6tor. 

fyor.     Away  with't,  Cutter;   hum — 
Come  fill  us  the  Glass  o'  Sack. 

Cut.     What  Health  do  we  lack? 

fVor.     Confusion  to  the  Quack. 

Both.     Confound  him,  Confound  him, 
Diseases  all  aroimd  him. 

Cut.     And  fill  again  the  Sack, 

fVor.     That  no  man  may  Lack, 

Cut.     Confusion  to  the  Quack, 

Beth.     Confusion  to  the  Quack, 
Confound  him.  Confound  him. 
Diseases  all  aroimd  him. 

IVor.     He's  a  kind  of  Grave-maker, 

Cut.     A  Urinal  Shaker, 

fVmr.     A  wretched  Groat-taker, 

Cut.     A  stinking  close-Stool  raker, 

fVor.     He's  a  Quack  that's  worse  than  a  Quaker. 

Both.     He's  a  Quack,  etc. 

IVor.     Hey,  Boys — Gingo — 

yoll.  Give  me  the  Glass,  fVilL  I  'le  venture  once  more 
what  e're  come  on  't,  here 's  a  Health  to  the  Royal  Travailer, 
and  so  Finis  Coronat. 

fVor.  Come  on  Boys,  Fivat ;  have  at  you  agen  then. 
Now  a  Pox  on  the  Poll,  of  old  Politique  Isoll. 

Both.     Wee'l  drink  till  we  bring. 
In  Triumph  back  the  King. 

[Cut."]     May  he  Live  till  he  see. 
Old  Noll  upon  a  Tree. 

Wor.     And  many  such  as  he. 

Both.     May  he  Live  till,  etc. 

Joll.  I  'me  very  Sick  again ;  fVilly  help  me  into  my  Bed  ; 
rest  you  merry.  Gentlemen. 

Cut.  Nay,  we  '1  go  in  with  him,  Captain,  he  shall  not  die 
this  bout. 

JVor.  It's  pity  but  he  should,  he  dos't  so  bravely;  come 
along  then,  kiss  me,  Cutter ;  is  not  this  better  than  quarrelling  ? 

Both.     May  he  live  till  he  see,  etc. 
Hey  for  Fidlers  now  !  [Exeunt. 

29s 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

A6k  3.     Scene  i. 

yoUy^  Aurelia. 

JolL  ^T^Is  true,  Aurelia^  the  Story  thcv  all  agree  in; 
X  'twas  nothing  but  a  simple  Plot  o'  the  two 
Lovers  to  put  me  in  fear  o'  death,  in  hope  to  work  then  upon 
my  good  Nature,  or  my  Conscience,  and  Quack  conspired  with 
them  out  o'  revenge ;  *Twas  a  cursed  Rogue  though  to  give 
me  such  an  unmerciful  Dose  of  Scammony  !  It  might  ha* 
prov'd  but  an  ill  jest ;  but  however,  I  will  not  be  a  loser  by  the 
business,  ere  I  ha*  done  with 't. 

Aur.  Me-thinks  there  might  be  something  extracted  out 
of  it. 

Joll,  Why  so  there  shall ;  I  'le  pretend,  Aurelia^  to  be  still 
desperately  sick,  and  that  I  was  really  poison'd,  no  man  will 
blame  me  after  that,  for  whatsoever  I  do  with  my  Niece.  But 
that  *s  not  all,  I  will  be  mightily  troubled  in  Conscience,  send 
for  the  Widow,  and  be  converted  by  her :  that  will  win  her 
heart,  joyn'd  with  the  hopes  of  my  swallowing  Lucia* s  portion. 

Aur,  For  that  point  I  '1  assist  you.  Sir,  Assure  her  that  my 
Cousin  Lucia  is  married  privately  this  after-noon  to  Mr.  Puny, 

JolL  I  would  she  were.  Wench,  (for  thine  and  my  sake) 
her  Portion  would  be  forfeited  then  indeed,  and  she  would  ha' 
no  great  need  oft,  for  that  Fop's  very  rich. 

Aur.  Weil,  Sir,  I  '1  bring  sufficient  proofs  of  that,  to  satisfie 
the  Widow,  and  that's  all  you  require;  be  pleas'd  to  let  the 
secret  of  the  business  rest  with  me  yet  a  while,  to  morrow  you 
shall  know 't.  But  for  my  own  part.  Sir,  if  I  were  in  your 
place,  I  'd  rather  patiently  lose  my  Estate  for  ever,  than  xikt  \ 
again  with  her. 

JolL  Oh  !  hold  your  self  contented,  good  frank-hearted 
Aurelia ;  would  I  were  to  marry  such  a  one  every  week  these 
two  years:  see  how  we  differ  now? 

Aur,  Bless  us !  what  humming  and  hawing  will  be  i*  this 
house !  what  preaching,  and  houling,  and  festing,  and  eating 
among  the  Saints  !  Their  first  pious  work  will  be  to  banish 
Fletcher  and  Ben  Johnson  out  'o  the  Parlour,  and  bring  in  their 
rooms  Martin  Mar-Prelatey  and  Posies  of  Holy  Hony-«uckles, 

296 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

and  a  Sawf-box  for  a  Wounded  Conscience,  and  a  Bundle  of 
Grapes  from  Canaan,  I  cann't  abide  'em ;  but  I  '1  break  my 
sister  Tabitha^s  heart  within  a  month  one  way  or  other.  But, 
Sir,  suppose  the  King  should  come  in  again,  (as  I  hope  he  will 
for  all  these  Villains)  and  you  have  your  own  again  o'  course, 
you  'd  be  very  proud  of  a  Soap-boyler's  Widow  then  in  Hide-- 
parky  Sir. 

yolL  Oh  !  then  the  Bishops  will  come  in  too,  and  she  '1 
away  to  Nnv-England ;  well,  this  does  not  do  my  business;  I'l 
about  it,  and  send  for  her.  [Exit. 

Enter  Ralph. 

Aur,  And  I'l  about  mine;  Ralphy  did  you  speak  to  Mr. 
Puny  to  meet  me  an  hour  hence  at  the  back-dore  in  the 
Garden?  he  must  not  know  the  estate  the  house  is  in  yet. 

Ralph.  Yes,  forsooth,  he  bad  me  tell  you,  he'd  no  more 
fail  you  than  the  Sun  feils  Bamahy^ayj  I  know  not  what  he 
means  by 't,  but  he  charg'd  me  to  tell  you  so,  and  he  would 
bring  (forsooth)  his  Regiment  of  five  hundred.  He 's  a  mad- 
man, I  think. 

AureL  Well,  did  you  speak  to  Mr.  Soaker  to  stay  within 
too,  the  little  Deacon  that  uses  to  drink  with  Will  and  you  ? 

RaL     Yes,  forsooth,  he's  in  the  Buttery. 

Aur.  Pray  Heaven  he  don't  forget  my  Instructions  there  ! 
But  first  I  have  a  little  trick  for  my  Lovers  to  begin  withall, 
they  shall  ha'  twenty  more  before  I  ha'  done  with  'em. 

[Exit. 


Scene  2. 

Enter  Truman  junior. 

Trum.  The  Veil  of  this  mistake  will  soon  be  cast  away, 
I  would  I  could  remove  Lucia*s  as  easily,  and  see  her  face  again, 
as  fair,  as  shortly  our  Innocence  will  appear. 

But  if  my  angry  father  come  to  know  our  late  Intelligence 
in  this  unlucky  business,  though  we  ha'  fiilfill'd  the  Letter  of 
his  Will,  that  which  can  satisfie  a  Lover's  Conscience,  will 
hardly  do  so  to  an  old  man's  Passion  ;  Ye  Heavenly  Powers,  or 

297 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

take  away  my  life,  or  give  me  quickly  that  for  which  I  onely 
am  content  to  keep  it. 

Scene  3. 

Enter  Aurelia,  {veird.) 

Ha  !   I  did  but  speak  just  now  of  Heavenly  powers^ 
And  my  blest  Angel  enters,  sure  they  have 
Heard  me,  and  promise  what  I  prayed  for. 
My  dear  Lucioy  I  thought  you'd  been  a  kind  of  prisoner  too. 

She  gives  him  a  Paper  and  embraces  bim^ 
She's  kinder  too  than  she  was  wont  to  be; 
My  prayers  are  heard  and  granted,  I'm  confirmed  in't. 

[Reads. 

By  my  Maid's  means  I  have  gotten  Keys  both  of  my  own 
Chamber  and  yours ;  we  may  escape  if  you  please  ;  but  that  I 
fear  would  ruine  you ;  We  lie  both  now  in  the  same  house,  a 
good  fortune  that  is  not  like  to  continue;  since  I  have  the 
engagement  of  your  faith,  I  account  my  self  your  Wife  already, 
and  shall  put  my  honor  into  your  hands ;  about  Midnight  I 
shall  steal  to  you ;  If  I  were  to  speak  this  I  should  blush,  but  I 
know  whom  I  trust. 

Yours,  Lucia. 

Trum,     Thou  dost  not  know  me,  Lucia^  [aside. 

And  hast  forgot  thy  self:  I  am  amaz'd. 
Stay,  here's  a  Postscript. 

(Burn  this  Paper  as  soon  as  you  have  read  it.) 
Burn  it  ?   yes,  would  I  had  don 't  before, 

[Burns  it  at  the  Candle, 
May  all  remembrance  of  thee  perish  with  thee. 
Unhappy  paper  ! 

Thy  very  ashes  sure  will  not  be  innocent, 
But  flie  about  and  hurt  some  chast  man's  eyes, 
As  they  do  mine.  [weeps. 

Oh,  Luciay  this  I  thought  of  all  misfortunes 
Would  never  have  befaln  me,  to  see  thee 
Forget  the  ways  of  Virtue  and  of  Honor. 
I  little  thought  to  see  upon  our  love, 

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CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

That  flourish'd  with  so  sweet  and  fresh  a  Beauty, 
The  slimy  traces  of  that  Serpent,  Lust. 
What  Devil  has  poison'd  her?    I  know  not  what  to  say  to  her. 
Go,  Luciay  retire,  prethee,  to  thy  Chamber, 
And  call  thy  wandring  Virtue  home  again ; 
It  is  not  yet  fisur  gone,  but  call  it  quickly, 
*Tis  in  a  dangerous  way;    I  will  forget  thy  error, 
And  spend  this  night  in  prayers  that  Heav'n  may  do  so. 

Exit  Aur. 
Would  she  have  had  me  been  mine  own  Adulterer  ? 
Before  my  Marriage  ? — Oh  lust — Oh  frailty — 
Where  in  all  human  natiire  shall  we  miss 
The  ulcerous  fermentations  of  thy  heat. 
When  thus  (alas)  we  find  thee  breaking  out 
Upon  the  comli'st  Visage  of  perfcdlion  r  [Exit. 


Scene  4. 

Aurelia. 

Aur.  Pray  Heaven,  I  ha'nt  made  my  foolish  Wit  stay  for 
me ;  if  he  talk  with  others  of  the  house  before  me,  I  'm  undone. 
Stay,  have  I  my  Paper  ready  ?  [Pk/A  out  a  Paper,']  Oh  !  that 's 
well !  my  Hand  I  'm  sure  s  as  like  hers  as  the  Left  is  to  the 
Right ;  we  were  taught  by  the  same  Master,  pure  Italian, 
there  *s  her  -^s  and  her  G's  I  '1  swear — Oh  !  are  you  come  ? 
that's  well. 

Scene  5. 

Enter  Puny. 

*Tis  almost  four  o'clock  and  that 's  the  precious  hour. 

Pun.     My  little  Heliogabalus^  here  I  am,  Prasto! 

Aur.  You'r  always  calline  me  names,  Mr.  Puny^  that's 
unkindly  done  to  one  that 's  labouring  for  you,  as  I  am. 

Pun.  I  ha'  made  more  haste  hither  than  a  Parson  does  to  a 
Living  o'  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

299 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Aur.  Punyy  you'r  not  a  man  o*  business  I  see,  that's  not  the 
style  o'  business ;  Well,  I  ha*  done,  I  think,  the  work  for  you, 
'tis  as  odd  a  Plot  as  ever  you  heard. 

Pun,     I  like  it  better,  I  love  odd  thines. 

Aur.  Why  thus  then,  you  know  Mr.  Truman  took  an 
Oath  to  his  father  never  to  see  my  Cousin  more  without  his 
leave. 

Pun.  Pish,  do  I  know  that  a  Lawyer  loves  to  take  mony 
in  Michaelmas  Term? 

Aur.  A  pies  upon  you:  well,  my  father  has  made  iMq 
swear  too,  never  to  see  Truman  without  his  consent. 

Pun.     Good,  there  will  be  a  good  Bo-peep  love. 

Aur.  For  all  this,  they  'r  resolv'd  to  marry  this  afternoon, 
(nay  don't  interrupt  me  with  your  Fopperies,  or  I  *1  be  gon) 
and  to  save  their  Oathes  (like  cunning  Casuists,  as  all  Lovers 
are)  they  '1  be  married  in  a  dark  room  (do  you  mark  me  ?),  the 
Minister,  Mr.  Soaker^  is  to  marry  them  without  Book;  and 
because  thei  'r  bound  not  to  speak  to  one  another  (for  that  I 
forgat  to  tell  you)  they'r  to  signifie  their  consent,  when  he  asks 
'em.  Will  you  such  a  one —  by  reverences,  and  giving  their 
hands ;  you  never  heard  of  such  a  humor,  but  the[y  're]  both 
mad — 

Pun.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Rare,  as  Fantastical  as  a  Whirlgig — 
but  how  come  you  to  know  all  this,  my  little  pretty  Witch  of 
Lancashire  ? 

Aur.  Why  that  I  'me  coming  to ;  her  Maid  you  must 
know  is  my  Pensioner,  and  betrays  all  Counsels ;  And  to  con- 
firm all  this  to  you,  here's  her  last  Letter  to  Truman  about  the 
business,  which  my  Intelligencer  ha's  Deliver'd  to  me  instead  of 
him ;  you  know  her  hand.  Read  it  all  over  to  your  self. 

Pun.  He  swear  by  her  Foot,  this  is  her  Hand, — hum — 
[Reads.']  my  Uncle 's  sick,  and  no  Body  will  be  at  this  side  o' 
the  House, — the  matted  Chamber — hum — In  at  the  Back  door 
which  shall  be  left  only  put  to — (ha,  ha,  ha !)  Mr.  Soaker  with 
you — ^just  at  four — you  must  not  stay  long  with  me — (ha,  ha, 
ha !)  when  'tis  done  and  past  recovery  they  '1  release  us  of  our 
Oaths — hum — I  shall  not  fail — yours  L.     (ha,  ha,  ha.) 

Aur.  Now  he  knows  nothing  o'  the  time,  for  that  he  should 
ha' known  by  this  Letter;  and  you  conceive  my  design,  I  hope? 
you  'r  not  a  Wit  for  nothing. 

300 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Pun.  My  dear  Pytbagoreariy  that  I  should  go  in  and  Marry 
her  instead  of  him  ? 

jfur.     Right !  thou  *st  a  shrewd  reach. 

Pun.     But  where 's  old  Soaker  all  this  while  ? 

Aur.  Why,  I  ha'  told  all  this  to  him,  only  naming  you  in 
aU  things  instead  of  Truman;  and  that  'twas  my  Contrivance 
aU  for  my  Cosens  and  your  Sake ;  he 's  within  at  a  Call,  De 
send  for  him ;  whose  there  ?  Mary  ?  call  hither  Mr.  Soaker ; 
I  ha'  given  him  five  Pounds,  and  for  so  much  more  he  '1  Marry 
you  to  another  to  morrow,  if  you  will. 

Pun.  I  adore  thee  Queen  Solomon ;  I  had  rather  be  Marri'd 
by  such  a  Plot  as  this,  than  be  Nephew  to  Prester  John — He 
mak  't  a  thousand  Spankers. 

Enter  Mr.  Soaker. 

Aur.  Oh  come  'tis  time  Mr.  Soaker ;  as  soon  as  you  ha'  done 
leave  the  Marri'd  couple  together ;  He  lock  this  Door  upon  you, 
go  out  at  the  to'ther,  where  shee  '1  come  in  to  you. 

Pun.  'Tis  as  dark  as  the  Devil's  conscience ;  but  the  best 
is,  the  Parson  ha's  a  good  Fieri  Facies^  like  a  Holiday,  that  will 
give  some  Lieht. 

Aur.  No!  there's  light  enough  to  keep  you  from  Stumbling 
within.  Oh  !  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  break  a  piece  of  Gold,  and 
give  her  half,  for  a  proof  of  the —  do  you  understand  me  ? 

Pun.  'Tis  well  thought  on  ;  but  Domine  Do£foribu5y  can  you 
say  the  Service  without  Book  are  you  sure  ? 

Soaker.  I  warrant  you  Sir ;  can  you  Lye  with  her  without 
Book  afterwards  ? 

Pun.  Hee's  a  Wit  too  by  Juno;  all  are  Wits  that  have  a 
finger  in  this  Venison  pasty. 

Aur.  Shee  '1  come  immediately,  go  in ;  do  not  stay  above 
half  an  hour ;  Mr.  Puny^  my  Cozen  will  be  mist  else,  and  all 
spoil'd. 

Pun.     De  warrant  you, let's  in;  dear  Learning  lead  the  way. 
[They  go  in  and  Aurelia  hcks  the  Door  «'  the  out^side. 

Aur.     So,  all 's  sure  this  way ;  He  be  with  you  straight. 

[Exit. 


301 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Scene  6. 

Enttr  Jolljr,  Cutter. 

yoll.  So,  now  the  Widdow's  gone,  I  may  breathe  a  little; 
I  believe  realty  that  true  Devotion  is  a  great  Pleasure,  but  *ti*  a 
datnn'd  constraint  and  drudgery  methinks,  this  Disdmuladoii 
of  it.  I  wonder  how  the  new  Saints  can  endure  it,  to  be 
always  at  the  work.  Day  and  Night  Afting ;  But  great  Gain 
makes  every  thing  seem  easie  ;  And  they  have,  I  suppose,  good 
Lusty  Recreations  in  private.  She's  gone,  the  Little  Holy 
thing,  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  with  the  Imagination  of  havine  been 
the  Chosen  Instrument  of  my  Conversion  from  Poptry,  Prilacj, 
and  CavalerUm ;  she's  gone  to  bragg  oft  to  Jeteph  Kneck-dtvmy 
and  bring  him  to  Confirm  me.  But  Cutter,  thine  was  the  best 
Humor  that  ever  was  begot  in  a  Rogue's  Noddle,  to  be  Con- 
verted in  an  instant,  the  Inspiration  way,  by  my  example  !  It 
may  hap  to  get  thee  Tai/'itha. 

Cut.  Nay,  and  I  hit  just  pat  upon  her  wav,  for  though  the 
Mother  be  a  kind  of  Browniit,  (I  know  not  wnat  the  Devil  she 
is  indeed)  yet  Tabitha  is  o'  the  Fifth  Monarchy  Faith,  and  wa* 
wont  to  go  every  Sunday  a-foot  over  the  Bridge  to  hear  Mr. 
Peak,  when  he  was  Prisoner  in  Lambeth  house  j  she  has  had  a 
Vision  too  her  self  of  Horns,  and  strange  things. 

Joll.  Pish !  Cutter,  for  the  way  that's  not  materia),  so  there 
be  but  enough  of  Nonsense  and  Hypocrisie ;  But  Cutter^  you 
must  reform  your  Habit  too,  a  little  ;  Off  with  that  Sword  and 
Buff  and  greasie  Plume  o'  Ribbons  in  your  Hat,  They'l  be 
back  here  presently,  do't  quickly. 

Cut,  He  be  chang'd  in  an  instant,  like  a  Scene,  and  then  He 
fetch  'em  to  you.  {Exit. 

Scene   7. 

Enter  Truman  Senier. 

Sen.  Trum.     I,  there  goes  one  of  his  Swa^erers ;  I  could 
ha'  Swagger'd  with  him  once — Oh !    Colonel,  you  'r  finely 
Poison'd,  are  you  not  ?  would  I  had  the  Poisoning  o'  you— 
Where's  my  Son  Dick  ?  what  ha'  you  done  with  him  \ 
302 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

yolL     Mr.  Truman. — 

Trum.  True  mc  no  more  than  I  true  you — come — Colonel 
you*r  but  a  Swaggering — He  ha'  the  Law  to  Swagger  with  you, 
that  I  will. 

Jo/L  First  leave  your  Raging  ;  though  you  should  rage  like 
Tamerlain  at  the  Bull,  'twould  do  no  good  here. 

Trum.  Do  you  call  me  names  too  ?  He  have  an  Action  o' 
Scandalum.  Well  Colonel,  since  you  provoke  me,  the  ProteSfor 
shall  know  what  you  are,  and  what  you  would  have  had  me 
done  for  the  King  in  the  time  of  the  last  rising. 

yolL  Mr.  Trumariy  I  took  you  for  a  Person  of  Honour ;  and 
a  Friend  to  his  Majesty ;  I  little  thought  to  hear  you  speak  of 
betraying  a  Gentleman  to  the  Prote£for, 

Trum,  s.  Betraying?  no  Sir,  I  scorn  it  as  much  as  you, 
but  lie  let  him  know  what  you  are,  and  so  forth,  an'  you  keep 
my  Son  from  me. 

yo/L  Mr.  Trumanj  if  you  '1  but  hear  me  patiently,  I  shall 
propose  a  thing  that  will,  I  hope,  be  good  and  acceptable  both 
to  your  Son  and  you. 

Trum.  Say  you  so  Sir  ?  well ;  but  I  won't  be  called  Tamer /a  in. 

yo/L  My  Niece,  not  only  by  her  wicked  design  to  Poison 
me,  but  by  Marrying  her  self,  without  my  consent  this  day  to 
Punjy  has  (as  you  know  very  well,  for  you  were  a  witness  Sir 
to  my  Brother's  will)  lost  all  the  right  she  had  to  a  plentifuU 
Portion.  Aurelia  shall  have  that  and  my  Estate,  (which  now 
within  few  days  I  shall  recover)  after  my  Death ;  she 's  not 
I  think  Unhandsome,  and  all  that  know  her  will  confess  she 
wants  no  Wit ;  with  these  Qualities,  and  this  Fortune,  if  your 
Son  like  her,  (for  though  h'as  injur'd  me.  Sir,  I  forget  that,  and 
attribute  it  only  to  the  Enchantments  of  my  Niece)  I  do  so 
well  approve  both  of  his  Birth  and  parts,  and  of  that  Fortune, 
which  you  I  think  will  please  to  make  him,  that  I  should  be 
extremely  glad  of  the  Alliance. 

Trum.  s.  Good  Colonel,  you  were  always  a  kind  Neighbour 
and  loving  Friend  to  our  Family,  and  so  were  we  to  you,  and 
had  reaped  for  you  \  you  know  I  would  have  had  Dick  marry 
your  Niece,  till  you  declar'd  he  should  ha'  no  Portion  with  her. 

yoll.  For  that  I  had  a  particular  reason.  Sir ;  your  Son's 
above  in  my  House ;  shall  I  call  him.  Sir,  that  we  may  know 
his  mind?  I  would  not  have  him  forc'd. 

303 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Trum.  s.  Pray  send  for  him  good  Colonel ;  forc*d  ?  no,  De 
make  him  do*t,  lie  warrant  you.  Boys  must  not  be  their  own 
choosers,  Colonel,  they  must  not  'ifaith,  they  have  their 
Sympathies  and  Fiddle-come-faddles  in  their  Brain,  and  know 
not  what  they  would  ha'  themselves. 

Scene  8. 

Enter  Lucia. 

Joll.  Why  how  now  Lucia?  how  come  you  from  your 
Chamber  ? 

Luc.  I  hope  you  did  not  mean  me  a  Prisoner,  Sir,  since  now 
you  *r  satisfy 'd  sufficiently  that  you  *r  not  Poison*d  ? 

yo/L  I  am  not  Dead,  that  *s  true.  But  I  may  thank  Heaven, 
and  a  strong  Constitution  for't;  you  did  your  weak  endeavours; 
however,  for  the  honour  of  our  Family,  and  for  your  Father's 
sake,  He  speak  no  more  o'  that,  but  I  could  wish,  for  the 
security  of  my  Life  hereafter,  that  you  would  go  home  to  your 
Husband,  for  they  say  you'r  marri'cl  Niece  this  day  without  my 
knowledge — Nay, — I  'm  content, — go  home  to  him  when  you 
please,  you  shall  ha'  your  thousand  Pounds. 

Trum.  5.  Heark  you.  Colonel,  she  should  not  have  a  groat 
of  'em,  not  a  groat ;  she  can't  recover 't  by  Law ;  I  know  the 
Will. 

Luc.     I  marry'd  Sir  ?  'tis  the  first  news  I  've  heard  of 't. 


Scene  9. 


Enter  Trum.  Jun. 

[Lucia  goes  to  put  on  her  FeiL 

Joll.  Nay,  leave  your  pretty  Jesuitical  Love-tricks  to  salve 
an  Oath ;  Mr.  Truman^  you  may  let  your  Son  see  her  now. 

Trum.  s.  I  Dick  you  may  see  her  as  much  as  you  please ; 
she's  marri'd. 

Trum.  j.     Marri'd  ? 

Trum.  s.  I  marri'd,  so  I  say,  Marri'd  this  after-noon  to 
Mr.  Puny. 

304 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Luc.    What  do  they  mean  ? 

Trum.  s.  And  Dick  I  ha*  got  a  Wife  too  for  you,  you  shall 
ha*  pretty  Mrs.  Aunlia. 

frum,  /.     Lucia  marri'd  ? 

Trum.  s.  Her  Father  and  I  are  agreed  of  all  things  ;  Heark 
you  Dicky  she  has  a  brave  Fortune  now. 

Trum.  j\     Marri'd  to  Puny? 

Trum.  s.     You  shall  have  her  presently. 

Trum.  j.     This  after-noon  ? 

Trum.  s.     Come  Dick;  there's  a  Wife  for  you  Dick. 

Trum.j.     I  won't  marry,  Sir. 

Trum.  5.     What  do  you  say  Sir  ? 

Trum.  j.     I  wo'  not  marry  Sir. 

Trum.  s.     Get  you  out  o*  my  sight  you  Rebel. 

yM.     Nay,  good  Mr.  Truman. 

Trum.  s.  He  ne're  acknowledge  him  for  my  Son  again ; 
I  tell  you  Colonel,  he 's  always  thus  with  his  wo'  nots  and  his 
Cannots. 

Scene   lo. 

Enter  Puny. 

Pun.  We  ha*  made  short  work  on  *t ;  t'  was  a  brave  quick 
Parsonides ;  The  little  Skittish  Philly  got  away  from  me  I  know 
not  how,  like  an  £ele  out  of  a  Basket. 

yoll.  Give  him  a  little  time  Mr.  Truman^  he  *s  troubPd  yet 
at  my  Niece's  marriage,  t'  will  over  quicklv. 

Tru.  s.     Give  my  Son  time,  Mr.  Jo/fy  r  marry  come  up — 

Scene   1 1 . 

Enter  Aurelia,  (after  Puny.) 

jfur.  What  ha'  you  done  already  ?  you  'r  a  sweet  Husband 
indeed. 

Pun.  Oh  !  my  little  Pimp  of  honour  !  here,  here  *s  the  five 
hundred  Marigolds ;  hold  thy  hand  Dido — yonder's  my  Wife, 
by  Satan  ;  how  a  Devil  did  tnat  little  Mephistophilus  get  hither 
before  me  ? 

en.  u  305 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Aur.  To  her  Puny;  never  conceal  the  mystery  any  longer, 
'tis  too  good  a  Jest  to  be  kept  close. 

Trum,  s.  For  your  sake  I  will  then,  Colonel  \  Come  prethee, 
Dick^  be  cheerfuU. — 

Trum.  j.     I  beseech  you, — Sir — 

Trum.  s.  Look  you  there  Colonel,  now  he  should  do  what 
I  would  have  him,  now  he  's  a  beseeching — 'tis  the  proudest 
stubborn'st  Coxcomb — 

Pun.  And  now  my  noble  Uncle — [to  Jolly\y  nay,  never  be 
angry  at  a  Marriage  i'  the  way  of  wit. — My  fair  Egyptian 
Queen,  come  to  thine  Antony. 

Luc.     What  would  this  rude  fellow  have  ? 

Trum.  j.     I  am  drown'd  in  wonder  ! 

Pun.  'Twas  I,  my  dear  Philocleoj  that  marri'd  thee  e'en 
now  in  the  dark  room,  like  an  amorous  Cat ;  you  may  remember 
the  Damask  Bed  by  a  better  Token  of  Two  than  a  bow'd 
Philip  and  Mary. 

Luc.     I  call  Heaven  to  witness. 
Which  will  protedl  and  justifie  the  Innocent  j 
I  understand  not  the  least  word  he  utters, 
But  as  I  took  him  always  for  a  Fool, 
I  now  do  for  a  Mad-man. 

Aur.  She's  angry  yet  to  have  mistook  her  Man.  [toyolly.] 
'Tis  true,  Sir,  all  that  Mr.  Puny  says,  I  mean  for  the  Marriage, 
for  the  rest,  she 's  best  able  to  answer  for  her  self. 

Luc.  True,  Cousin,  then  I  see  'tis  some  conspiracy  t'  ensare 
my  Honor  and  my  Innocence. 

Aur.  The  Parson,  Mr.  Soaker^  that  married  'em  is  still 
within. 

fTi/l.     He 's  i'  th'  Buttery,  shall  I  call  him.  Sir  ? 

yo/L     I,  quickly. 

^rum.  J.  'Tis  the  sight  of  me,  no  doubt,  confounds  her 
with  a  shame  to  confess  any  thing ;  It  seems  that  sudden  fit  of 
raging  lust,  that  brought  her  to  my  Chamber,  could  not  rest  till 
it  was  satisfi'd,  it  seems  I  know  not  what. 

Enter  Mr.  Soaker. 

JolL  Mr.  Soaker^  did  you  marry  my  Niece  this  after-noon  to 
Mr.  Puny  in  the  Matted  Chamber  ? 

306 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Soai.     Yes,  Sir;    I   hope   your  Worship  won't  be  angry, 
Marriage,  your  Worship  knows,  is  honorable. 
Luc.     Hast  thou  no  conscience  neither  ? 

Scene   12. 

Entir  Widow,  Tabitha,  Cutter  in  a  Puritanical  habit, 

JolU  Niece,  go  in  a  little,  I'l  come  t'  you  presently  and 
examine  this  matter  further ;  Mr.  Puny^  lead  in  your  wife  for 
shame. 

Luc.     Villain,  come  not  near  me, 
1 1  sooner  touch  a  Scorpion  or  a  Viper.  \Exit, 

Pun.  She 's  as  humerous  as  a  Bel-rope  ;  she  need  not  be  so 
cholerique,  I'm  sure  I  behav'd  my  self  like  Propria  qua 
maribus. 

Aur.  Come  in  with  me,  Mr.  Puny^  I  '1  teach  you  how  you 
shaU  handle  her.  Exeunt  Aur.  Pun. 

JolL  Mr.  Truman^  pray  take  your  son  home,  and  see  how 
you  can  work  upon  him  there ;  speak  fairly  to  him. 

Trum.  s.     Speak  feirly  to  my  son  P  I  '1  see  him  buried  first. 

yoIL     I  mean  perswade  him. — 

T'rum.  s.  Oh  1  that 's  another  matter ;  I  will  perswade  him, 
Colonel,  but  if  ever  I  speak  fair  to  him  till  he  mends  his 
manners — Come  along  with  me,  Jacksawce,  come  home. 

Exeunt  Trum.  sen.  Trum.  jun. 

Trum.  j.     I  Sir,  any  whither. 

fFid.  What's  the  matter,  brother  Colonel,  are  there  any 
broils  here  ? 

JolL  Why,  Sister,  my  Niece  has  married  without  my  con- 
sent, and  so  it  pleases,  it  e'en  pleases  Heaven  to  bestow  her 
Estate  upon  me. 

Wid.     Why,  brother,  there's  a  Blessing  now  already;    If 

fou  had  been  a  wicked  Cavalier  still  she  'd  ha'  done  her  duty, 
warrant  you,  and  defrauded  you  of  the  whole  Estate ;  my 
brother  Cutter  here  is  grown  the  Heavenliest  man  o'  the  sudden, 
'tis  his  work. 

Cut.  Sister  Barebottle^  I  must  not  be  called  Cutter  any 
more,  that  is  a  name  of  Cavalero  darkness ;  the  Devil  was  a 

U2  -jj^T 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cutter  from  the  beginning ;  my  name  is  now  Abidmgo^  I  had  a 
Vision  which  whisper'd  to  me  through  a  Key-hole,  Go  call  thy 
self  Ahedntgo, 

Tab.     The  wonderful  Vocation  of  some  Vessels  ! 

Cut.  It  is  a  name  that  signifies  Fiery  Furnaces,  and  Tribu* 
lation,  and  Martyrdom,  I  know  I  am  to  sufier  for  the  Truth. 

Tab,     Not  as  to  death,  Brother,  if  it  be  his  will. 

Cut.     As  to  death.  Sister,  but  I  shall  gloriously  return. 

'Joll.     What,  Brother,  after  death  ?  that  were  miraculous. 

Cut.     Why  the  wonder  of  it  is,  that  it  is  to  be  miraculous. 

Joll.  But  Miracles  are  ceas'd.  Brother,  in  this  wicked  Age  of 
Cavalerism. 

Cut.  They  are  not  ceas'd,  Brother,  nor  shall  they  cease  till 
the  Monarchy  be  establish'd. 

I  say  again  I  am  to  ret;urn,  and  to  return  upon  a  Purple 
Dromadary,  which  signifies  Magistracy,  with  an  Ax  in  my 
hand  that  is  called  Reformation,  and  I  am  to  strike  with  that 
Ax  upon  the  Gate  of  Westmimter^hall^  and  cry,  down  Babjkn^ 
and  the  Building  called  IVestminster^hall  is  to  run  away  and  cast 
it  self  into  the  River,  and  then  Major  General  Harrison  is  to 
come  in  Green  sleeves  from  the  hforth  upon  a  Sky-colour'd 
Mule,  which  signifies  heavenly  Instrudlion. 

Tab.  Oh  the  Father  !  he 's  as  full  of  Mysteries  as  an  Egg 
is  full  of  meat. 

Cut.  And  he  is  to  have  a  Trumpet  in  his  mouth  as  big  as  a 
Steeple,  and  at  the  sounding  of  that  Trumpet  all  the  Churches 
in  London  are  to  fall  down. 

JVid.  O  strange,  what  times  shall  we  see  here  in  poor 
England  ! 

Cut.  And  then  Venner  shall  march  up  to  us  from  the  West 
in  the  figure  of  a  Wave  of  the  Sea,  holding  in  his  hand  a  Ship 
that  shall  be  call'd  the  Ark  of  the  Reform'd. 

Joll.     But  when  must  this  be.  Brother  Abednego? 

Cut.  Why  all  these  things  are  to  be  when  the  Cat  of  the 
North  has  o're-come  the  Lion  of  the  South,  and  when  the 
Mouse  of  the  West  has  slain  the  Elephant  of  the  East.  I  do 
hear  a  silent  Voice  within  me,  that  bids  me  rise  up  presently 
and  declare  these  things  to  the  Congregation  of  the  Lovely  in 
CoUman^street.  TabithOy  Tabithay  Tabithay  I  call  thee  thrice, 
come  along  with  me,  Tabitha.  [Exit. 

308 


CUTTER  OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Tab,  There  was  something  of  this,  as  I  remember,  in  my 
last  Vision  of  Horns  the  other  day.  Holy  man  !  I  follow  thee; 
farewell,  forsooth,  Mother,  till  anon. 

jfo/L     Come,  let  *s  go  in  too.  Sister.  ^Exeunt. 

A<9:  4.     Scene   i. 

Truman  yunior, 

WHat  shall  I  think  hence-forth  of  Woman-kind  ? 
When  I  know  Lucia  was  the  best  of  it, 
And  see  her  what  she  is?    What  are  they  made  of? 
Their  Love,  their  Faith,  their  Souls  enslav'd  to  passion  ! 
Nothing  at  their  Command  beside  their  Tears, 
And  we,  vain  men,  whom  such  Heat-drops  deceive ! 
Hereafter  I  will  set  my  self  at  Liberty, 
And  if  I  sigh  or  grieve,  it  shall  not  be 
For  Love  of  One,  but  Pity  of  all  the  Sex. 

Scene  2. 

Enter  Lucia. 

Ha !    she  will  not  let  me  see  her  sure ; 
If  ever,  Lucia^  a  Veil  befitted  thee, 
nfis  now,  that  thou  maist  hide  thy  guilty  blushes. 

Luc.     If  all  their  malice  yet 
Have  not  prevail'd  on  Truman*s  Constancy, 
They'l  miss  their  wicked  end,  and  I  shall  live  still. 
I'l  go  and  speak  to  him. 

Trum.  Forbear,  Lucia^  for  I  have  made  a  second  Oath, 
which  I  shall  keep,  I  hope,  with  lesser  trouble,  never  to  see 
thy  face  more. 

Luc.     You  were  wont,  Sir, 
To  say,  you  could  not  live  without  the  sight  oft. 

Trum.     I ;    'twas  a  good  one  then. 

Luc.     Has  one  day  spoil'd  it? 

Trum.  O  yes,  more  than  a  hundred  years  of  time,  made  as 
much  more  by  sorrow,  and  by  sickness,  could  e'er  have  done. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Luc.     Pray  hear  me^  Truman : 
For  never  innocent  Maid  was  wrongM  as  I  am ; 
Believe  what  I  shall  say  to  you,  and  confirm 
By  all  the  holiest  Vows  that  can  bind  Souls. 

Trum.     I  have  believ'd  those  Female  tricks  too  long; 
I  know  thou  canst  speak  willingly,  but  thy  Words 
Are  not  what  Nature  meant  them,  thy  Mind's  Picture; 
1*1  believe  now  what  represents  it  better. 
Thine  own  Hand,  and  the  proof  of  mine  own  Eyes. 

Luc.     I  know  not  what  you  mean;   believe  my  Tears. 

Trum.     They'r  idle  empty  Bubbles. 
Rais'd  bv  the  Agitation  of  thy  Passions, 
And  hollow  as  thy  heart;   there  is  no  weight  in  'em. 
Go  thou  once,  Ltuia ;   Farewel, 
Thou  that  wer't  dearer  to  me  once,  than  all 
The  outward  things  of  all  the  World  beside. 
Or  my  own  Soul  within  me,  fiirewcl  for  ever; 
Gfo  to  thine  Husband,  and  love  him  better  than 
Thou  didst  thy  Lover. 

I  ne're  will  see  thee  more,  nor  shall,  I  fear. 
Ere  see  my  self  again. 

Luc,  [kneels,^     Heare  me  but  once. 

Trum,     No,  'tis   enough ;    Heaven   hear   thee  when   thou 
kneel'st  to  it.  \^Exit, 

Luc,     Will  he  ?  he's  gone ;  now  all  the  world  has  left  mc, 

[nm. 
And  I  am  desolately  miserable ; 
'Tis  done  unkindly,  most  unkindly,  Truman. 
Had  a  blest  Angel  come  to  me  and  said 
That  thou  wert  false,  I  should  have  sworn  it  li'd. 
And  thought  that  rather  fain  than  thee. 
Go,  dear,  false  man,  go  seek  out  a  new  Mistris; 
But  when  you  ha'  talk'd,  and  lov'd,  and  vow'd,  and  sworn 
A  little  while,  take  heed  of  using  her 
As  you  do  me;    no,  may  your  love  to  her 
Be  such  as  mine  to  you,  which  all  thy  injuries 
Shall  never  change,  nor  death  it  self  abolish. 
May  she  be  worthier  of  your  bed  than  I, 
And  when  the  happy  course  of  many  years 
Shall  make  you  appear  old  to  all  but  her, 

310 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

May  70U  in  the  &ir  Glass  of  your  fresh  Issue 

See  your  own  youth  again ;    but  I  would  have  'em 

True  in  their  Loves,  and  kill  no  innocent  Maids ; 

For  me  it  is  no  matter;    when  Tm  dead. 

My  busie  soul  shall  flutter  still  about  him, 

Twill  not  be  else  in  Heaven;    it  shall  watch 

Over  his  sleeps,  and  drive  away  all  dreams 

That  come  not  with  a  soft  and  downy  wing; 

If  any  dangers  threaten,  it  shall  becken 

And  call  his  spirit  away,  till  they  be  past. 

And  be  more  diligent  than  his  Guardian  Angel ; 

And  when  just  Heaven,  as  I'm  assur'd  it  wul, 

Shall  clear  my  Honor  and  my  Innocence, 

He'l  sigh,  I  know,  and  pity  my  misfortunes. 

And  blame  himself,  and  curse  my  false  Accusers, 

And  weep  upon  my  Grave 

For  my  wrong'd  Virtue,  and  mistaken  Truth, 

And  unjust  Death;    I  ask  no  more.  [Exit. 

Scene  3. 

Enter  Truman  Junior. 

TTwas  barbarously  done  to  leave  her  so; 
Kneeling  and  weeping  to  me;    'twas  inhuman; 
I'l  back  and  take  my  leave  more  civilly. 
So  as  befits  one  who  was  once  her  Worshipper. 

[Goes  over  the  Stage^  and  comes  back. 
She's  gone;    why  let  her  go;    I  feel  her  still; 
I  feel  the  root  of  her,  labouring  within 
To  sprout  afresh,  but  I  will  pluck  it  up. 
Or  tear  my  heart  with't. 

Scene  4. 

Enter  Jolly,  Truman  Senior. 

JoU.  He's  there.  Sir,  pray  let  him  now  resolve  you  positively 
what  he  means  to  do. 

Trum.  s.  What  he  means  to  do.  Colonel?  that  were  fine 
'liaith ;    if  he  be  my  son  he  shall  mean  nothing ; 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

B07S  must  not  have  their  meanings,  Colonel : 
Let  him  mean  what  I  mean  with  a  Wennion. 

Trum.  j.     I  shall  be  prest,  I  see,  by  'em,  upon  the  hateful 
Subje£l  of  a  Marriage ; 
And  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  AffliSion, 
Now  I  have  lost  that  which  I  lov*d,  compeU'd 
To  take  that  which  I  hate. 

Trum.  s.  I  will  not  be  troubled,  Colonel,  with  his  meaning^ 
if  he  do  not  marry  her  this  very  evening  (for  I  'le  ha'  none  of 
his  Flim-flams  and  his  May-be's)  I'le  send  for  my  son  7mi 
from  St.  JobfCs  College  (he  s  a  pretty  Scholar  I  can  teU  you, 
Colonel,  I  have  heard  him  syllogize  it  with  Mr.  Soaker  in  Mood 
and  Figure)  and  settle  my  Estate  upon  him  with  her ;  if  he 
have  his  Meanings  too,  and  his  Sympathies,  I  *1  disinherit  'em 
both,  and  marry  the  Maid  my  self,  if  she  can  like  me ;  I  have 
one  Tooth  yet  left.  Colonel,  and  that 's  a  Colt's  one. 

Trum.  j.     Did  I  submit  to  lose  the  sight  of  Lucia 
Onely  to  save  my  unfortunate  Inheritance; 
And  can  there  be  impos'd  a  harder  Article 
For  me  to  boggle  at? 

Would  I  had  been  born  some  wretched  Peasant's  son, 
And  never  known  what  Love  or  Riches  were. 
Ha — I  '1  marry  her — why  should  I  not  ?    if  I 
Must  marry  somebody, 

And  hold  my  Estate  by  such  a  slavish  Tenure, 
Why  not  her  as  well  as  any  else  ? 
All  Women  are  alike  I  see  by  Lucioj 
'Tis  but  resolving  to  be  miserable. 
And  that  is  resolv'd  for  me  by  my  Destiny. 

JolL     Well,  try  him  pray,  but  do  it  kindly.  Sir, 
And  artificially. 

Trum,  s.     I  warrant  you ;    Dicky  I  '1  ha'  you  marry  Mrs, 
Aurelia  to  night. 

Trum.  j.     To  night?  the  warning's  short.  Sir,  and  it  may 
be — 

Trum.  5.     Why  look  you.  Colonel,  he 's  at 's  old  lock,  he 's 
at's  May-bees  again. 

Trum.  J.     I  know  not.  Sir — 

Trum.  s.     I,  and  his  Know-nots,  you  shall  have  him  at  his 
Wo'nots  presently;   Sirra — I  will  have  you  know.  Sir — 

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CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

yolL  Nay,  good  Mr.  Truman — you  know  not  yet  what 
answer  he  intends  to  make  you. 

Trum.  j.     Be  pleas'd.  Sir,  to  consider — 

Trum,  s.  Look  you,  Sir,  I  must  consider  now,  he  upbraids 
his  fiither  with  the  want  of  consideration,  like  a  Varlet  as 
he  is. 

Trum.  j.     What  shall  I  do  ?    why  should   not   I   do  any 
thing. 
Since  all  things  are  indifferent? 

yolL     I    beseech    you,    Mr.    Truman^    have    but    a    little 
patience — 
Your  Either,  Sir,  desires  to  know — 

Trum.  s.  I  do  not  desire  him.  Colonel,  nor  never  will  desire 
him,  I  command  him  upon  the  duty  of  a  Child — 

yo/I.  Whether  you  can  dispose  your  self  to  love  and  marry 
my  daughter  AureUay  and  if  you  can,  for  several  reasons  we 
desire  it  may  be  presently  consummated. 

Trum.  j.     Out  with  it,  stubborn  Tongue; 
I  shall  obey  my  fiither,  Sir,  in  all  things. 

Trum.  5.     Ha !    what  dee'  you  say.  Sir  ? 

yoll.  This  old  testy  Fool  is  angry,  I  think,  to  have  no  more 
occasion  given  him  of  being  so. 

Trum.  j.     I  shall  obey  you.  Sir. 

yo/l.  You  speak.  Sir,  like  a  vertuous  Gentleman ;  the  same 
obolience  and  resignation,  to  a  father's  will,  I  found  in  my 
AureUoy  and  where  two  such  persons  meet,  the  issue  cannot 
chuse  but  be  successful. 

Trum.  s.  Ah  Dickj  my  son  Dicky  he  was  always  the  best 
natur'd  Boy — he  was  like  his  father  in  that — he  makes  me 
weep  with  tenderness,  like  an  old  fool  as  I  am — Thou  shalt 
have  all  my  Estate,  DicJty  I  '1  put  my  self  to  a  pension  rather 
than  thou  shall  want — go  spruse  up  thy  self  a  little  presently, 
thou  art  not  merry  'i&ith,  Dicky  prethee  be  merry  Dicky  and 
fetch  fine  Mrs.  Aunlia  presently  to  the  little  Church  behind 
the  Colonel's  Garden,  Mr.  Soaker  shall  be  there  immediately 
and  wait  for  you  at  the  Porch  (we  '1  have  it  instantly.  Colonel, 
done,  lest  the  young  fool  should  relapse)  come,  dear  Dicky  let 's 
go  cheerily  on  with  the  business. 

Trum.  j.  What  have  I  said  ?  what  am  I  doing  ?  the  best  is, 
it  is  no  matter  what  I  say  or  do. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

yolL  I  '1  see  Aunlia  shall  be  readjr,  and  all  things  on  my 
part  within  this  half  hour. 

Trum,  s.  Good,  honest,  noble  Colonel,  let  me  shake  you 
by  the  hand.     Come,  dear  DicJtj  we  lose  time.       {^Exeunt. 

Scene  5. 

Enter  Cutter,  Tabitha,  a  Boy. 

Cut,  And  the  Vision  told  me,  sister  Tabitha j  that  this  same 
day,  the  first  of  the  seventh  month,  in  the  year  of  Grace  1658, 
and  of  Revelation,  and  Confusion  of  Carnal  Monarchies  the 
tenth,  that  we  two,  who  are  both  holy  Vessels,  should  bv  an 
holy  Man  be  joyned  together  in  the  holy  Bond  of  sandifi'd 
Matrimony. 

Tab.     I  brother  Abednego^  but  our  friends  consents — 

Cut.  Heaven  is  our  friend,  and.  Sister,  Heaven  puts  this 
into  our  thoughts ;  it  is,  no  doubt,  for  propagation  of  the  ereat 
Mystery  \  there  shall  arise  from  our  two  bodies,  a  great  Con- 
founder  of  Gogmagogy  who  shall  be  called  the  Pestle  of  Antichrist, 
and  his  children  shall  inherit  the  Grapes  of  Canaan. 

Tab.     My  mother  will  be  angry,  I  'm  afraid. 

Cut.  Your  Mother  will  rejovce,  the  Vision  says  so,  sister, 
the  Vision  says  your  Mother  will  rejoyce;  how  will  it  rejoycc 
her  righteous  heart  to  see  you,  Tabitha^  riding  behind  me  upon 
the  Purple  Dromedary?  I  would  not  for  the  world  that  you 
should  do  it,  but  that  we  are  commanded  from  above ;  for  Co 
do  things  without  the  aforesaid  Command  is  like  imto  the 
building  of  a  Fire  without  the  Bottom-cake. 

Tab.     I,  I,  that  it  is,  he  knows. 

Cut.  Now  to  confirm  to  you  the  truth  of  this  Vision, 
there  is  to  meet  us  at  a  zealous  Shoomaker's  habitation  hard  by 
here,  by  the  command  of  a  Vision  too,  our  Brother  Zephaniah 
Fats^  an  Opener  of  Revelations  to  the  Worthy  in  Mary  ff^hitt' 
chapely  and  he  is  the  chosen  Vessel  to  joyn  our  hands. 

Tab.  I  would  my  Mother  knew 't ;  but  if  that  holy  man 
come  too  by  a  Vision,  I  shall  have  grace,  I  hope,  not  to 
resist. 

Cut.  Sister,  let  me  speak  one  word  of  Instru£tion  to  yonder 
Babe. 

3'4 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Tab.     Oh  how  my  bowds  yem ! 

Cut.  Sirra,  is  my  litde  Doctor  already  staying  for  me  at 
Tom   Underleather  my  Shoomaker's  house? 

Boy.  Yes,  Sir,  but  he's  in  so  strange  a  Habit,  that  Mr. 
Underleather^ s  Boy  Franck  and  I  were  ready  to  die  with  laugh- 
ing at  him. 

Cut.  Oh  so  much  the  better;  eo  you  little  piece  of  a  Rogue 
and  get  every  thing  ready  against  f  come  back.  [Exit  Boy. 
Sister,  that  oabe  you  saw  me  speaking  to  is  predestinated  to 
Spiritual  Mightiness,  and  is  to  be  restorer  of  the  Mystical  Tribe 
of  Gad- 
Tab.  Oh  the  Wonderous — but,  Brother  Abednego^  will  you 
not  pronounce  this  Evening  tide  before  the  Congregation  of  the 
Spotless  in  Coleman^street  ?  , 

Cut.  The  will  of  the  latter  Vision  is  to  be  fulfilled  first,  as 
a  Preparatory  Vision;  let  us  not  make  the  Messenger  of 
Mysteiy,  who  is  sent  by  a  Vision  so  fiir  as  from  Mary  JVhiti-- 
chapel  tor  our  sakes,  to  stay  too  long  from  his  lawful  Vocation 
of  Basket-making.     Come,  Sister  Tabitha. 

Tab.     Hei,  ho !    but  I  will  not  resist.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  6. 

Enter  Jolly,  Puny,  Worm. 

yoll.  Mr.  Puny^  since  you  threaten  me,  I  tell  you  plainly 
I  think  my  Niece  has  undone  her  self  by  marrying  thee,  for 
though  thou  hast  a  fair  Estate  at  present,  I'm  hainously  mistaken 
if  thou  beest  not  cheated  of  it  all  within  these  three  years  by 
such  Rabbit-suckers  as  these,  that  keep  thee  company,  and  like 
lying  sons  o'  the  Devil  as  they  are,  cry  thee  up  for  a  Wit,  when 
there 's  nothing  so  unlike,  no  not  any  of  thy  own  Similitudes, 
thy  odious  Comparisons. 

Pun.  The  Colonel 's  raging  mad,  like  a  Baker  in  the  Sub- 
burbs,  when  his  Oven's  over-heated. 

War.     Good,  very  good  i'&ith. 

JolL  I,  that  was  one  of  'em ;  as  for  her  Portion,  I  thought 
to  ha'  given  her  a  thousand  pounds,  but — 

Pun.  O  magnanimous  Colonel !  what  a  portion  for  a 
Toothpick-maker's  daughter! 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Wor,     Good,  shoot  him  thick  with  similies  like  Hail-shot. 

JolL     But  now  thou  shalt  not  have  a  groat  with  her. 

Fun,  What  not  a  poor  old  Harry-Gvosit  that  looks  as  thin 
as  a  Poet's  Cloak?  But  however,  my  noble  Mountain  hearted 
Uncle,  I  ha'  made  her  Maiden-head  a  Crack'd  Groat  already, 
and  if  I  ha'  nothing  more  from  her,  she  shall  ha'  nothing  more 
from  me ;  no,  she  shall  foot  Stokins  in  a  Stall  for  me,  or  make 
Children's  Caps  in  a  Garret  fifteen  stories  high. 

JolL  For  that  matter  (for  though  thou  speak'st  no  sense 
I  guess  thy  brutish  meaning)  the  Law  will  allow  her  honorable 
Alimony  out  o'  your  Foolship's  Fortune. 

Pun,  And  the  Law  will  allow  me  her  Portion  too,  good 
Colonel  Uncle,  you'r  not  too  big  to  be  brought  into  IVnt^ 
mimter-h^W  ;  nay.  Captain,  his  Niece  uses  me  worse  too,  she 
will  not  let  me  touch  the  Nail  of  her  little  finger,  and  raik  at 
me  like  a  Flounder-mouth'd  Fish-woman  with  a  face  like 
Billingsgate, 

Jolt,  What  flesh  can  support  such  an  afFe£ted  Widgen,  who 
ha  s  not  a  design  to  cheat  him  of  something  as  that  Vermin 
ha's?  well,  I  shall  be  able  to  Live  now  I  hope  as  befits  a 
Gentleman,  and  therefore  I'le  endure  the  company  of  Fopps  and 
Knaves  no  longer. 

IVor,  Come  Colonel,  let's  go  in,  and  dispute  the  difference 
conscienciously  over  a  Bottle  o'  Sack. 

Joll,  I  keep  no  Tavern,  tVorm;  or  if  I  did,  thy  whole 
Estate  would  hardly  reach  to  a  Gill. 

fVor,  Colonel,  thou  art  grown  Unkind,  and  art  Drunk  this 
afternoon  without  me. 

JolL  Without  thee,  Buffoon  ?  why  I  tell  thee,  thou  shall 
never  shew  that  Odd,  Pimping,  Cheating  fsure  o'  thine  within 
my  Doors  agen,  I  'le  turn  away  any  man  o'  mine  that  shall  dis- 
parage himself  to  drink  with  such  a  fellow  as  thou  art. 

tror.     As  I  ?   why  what  am  I  ?    pray  ?    Mighty  Colonel ! 

Joll,  Thou  art  or  hast  been  every  thing  that  *s  ill,  there  is 
no  Scandalous  way  of  Living,  no  Vocation  of  the  Devil,  that 
thou  hast  not  set  up  in  at  one  time  or  other;  Fortune  ha's 
Whip'd  thee  about  through  all  her  streets ;  Thou  'rt  one  that 
Lives  like  a  Raven,  by  Providence  and  Rapin;  now  thou'rt 
feeding  upon  that  raw  young  fellow,  and  doest  Devour  and  Kaw 
him ;  thou  'rt  one  that  if  thou  should'st  by  chance  go  to  Bed 

316 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

sober,  would'st  write  it  down  in  thy  Almanack,  for  an  Unlucky 
day ;  sleep  is  not  the  Image  of  Death  to  thee,  unless  thou  bee'st 
Dead  drunk ;  Thou  art — I  know  not  what — thou'rt  any  thing, 
and  shall  be  to  me  hereafter  nothing. 

Pun.     This  Colonel  pisses  Vinegar  to  day. 

ff^or.  This  is  uncivil  Language  Colonel  to  an  old  Camerade, 
and  one  of  vour  own  party. 

yolL  My  Comrade  ?  o'  my  party  thou  ?  or  any  but  the  party 
of  the  Pick-purses ! 

Pun.  This  bouncing  Bear  of  a  Colonel  will  break  the  back 
o*  my  little  Whelp  of  a  Captain,  imless  I  take  him  off;  come 
away  Captain,  I  'le  firk  his  back  with  two  Bum-baylies,  till  he 
spew  up  every  Stiver  of  her  Portion. 

y^/L  Fare-ye-well,  Gentlemen,  come  not  near  these  Doors 
if  you  love  your  own  Leather,  I  '1  ha'  my  Scullions  batter  you 
with  Bones  and  Turneps,  and  the  Maids  drown  you  with  Piss- 
pots,  if  you  do  but  approach  the  Windows;  these  are  sawcy 
Knaves  indeed,  to  come  to  me  for  Pounds  and  Portions. 

(Exit. 

Wor.  Poverty,  the  Pox,  an  ill  Wife,  and  the  Devil  go  with 
thee.  Colonel. 

Pun.  I  vex'd  him  to  the  Gills,  fVorm^  when  I  put  that 
bitter  Bob  o'  the  Baker  upon  him. 

IVor.  I  ?  i'st  e'n  so?  not  come  to  your  House?  by  Jove  I'l 
turn  him  out  of  it  himself  by  a  trick  that  I  have. 

Pun.  Pish  I  thou  talk'st  as  Ravingly  as  a  Costermonger  in  a 
Fcaver. 

fF(fr.     r\  do't  by  Jove. 

Pun.  How,  prethee.  Captain  ?  what  does  thy  Pericranium 
mean  ? 

Wor.  Why  here  I  ha  *t,  by  Jove;  I  'm  ravish'd  with  the 
fancy  of  it ;  let  me  see — ^let  me  see — his  Brother  went  seven 
years  ago  to  Guiny. — 

Pun.  I,  but  the  Merchants  say  he 's  Dead  long  since,  and 
gon  to  the  Blackamores  below. 

Wor.     The  more  Knaves  they;  he  Lives,  and  I'm  the  man. 

Pun.     Ha !  ha !  ha !  thou  talk'st  like  a  Sowc'd  Hoggs-face. 

fVor.  I  knew  him  very  well,  and  am  pretty  like  him,  liker 
than  any  of  your  Simil[i]tudes,  Puny ;  by  long  Conversadon  with 
him,  and  the  Colonel,  I  know  all  passages  betwixt  'em;   and 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

what  his  Humor  and  his  Estate  was,  much  better  than  he  him- 
self, when  he  was  Alive;  he  was  a  Stranger  thing  than  any 
Monster  in  Afrique  where  he  Traded. 

Pun,  How !  prethee  Captain  ?  I  love  these  Odd  fiintastical 
things  as  an  Alderman  loves  Lobsters. 

fror.  Why,  you  must  know,  he  had  quite  lost  his  memory, 
totally,  and  yet  thought  himself  an  able  man  for  business,  and 
that  he  did  himself  all  that  was  done  by  his  man  John^  who 
went  always  along  with  him ;  like  a  Dog  with  a  Blind  man. 

Pun.     Ha !  ha  1  ha  !  Sublimely  fantastical. 

ff^or.  He  carry'd  a  Scrowl  about  him  of  Memorandums, 
even  of  his  Daughters  and  his  Brothers  names,  and  where  his 
House  stood  ;  for  as  I  told  you,  he  remembred  nothing ;  and 
where  his  Scrowl  failed,  John  was  his  remembrancer,  we  were 
wont  to  call  him  Remembrancer  John. 

Pun.  Ha,  ha,  ha  1  Rarely  exotique !  I  '1  Aft  that  apple 
Johny  never  was  such  a  John  as  I ;  not  John  o'  Gant^  or  John 
o'  NokeSy  I  will  turn  Remembrancer  John^  as  round  as  a  Wedfding 
Ring,  ha,  ha,  ha  I 

fP^or.  Well  said  !  but  you  must  lay  aside  conceits  for  a 
while,  and  remote  fancies.  I'l  teach  you  his  humor  instantly; 
now  will  I  and  my  man  John  swarthy  our  faces  over  as  if  that 
Country's  heat  had  made  'em  so,  (which  will  Disguise  us 
sufficiently)  and  attire  our  selves  in  some  strange  Habits  o'  those 
Parts,  (I  know  not  how  yet,  but  we  shall  see  it  in  Spades 
Mapps)  and  come  and  take  Possession  of  our  House  and  Estate. 

Pun.     Dear  Ovidy  let's  about  thy  Metamorphosis. 

JVor.  'Twill  be  discover'd  perhaps  at  last,  but  however,  for 
the  present  'twill  break  off  his  match  with  the  Widdow,( which 
makes  him  so  Proud  now)  and  therefore  it  must  be  done  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  Eye,  for  they  say  he's  to  marry  her  this  Night; 
if  all  fail,  'twill  be  at  least  a  merry  'bout  for  an  hour,  and  a 
mask  to  the  Wedding. 

Pun.     Quick,  dear  Rogue!    quick  as  Precipitation. 

fVor.  I  know  where  we  can  ha'  Cloaths,  hard  by  here; 
give  me  ten  Pounds  to  hire  'em,  and  come  away,  but  of  all 
things,  man  John^  take  heed  of  being  witty. 

Pun.  I,  that's  the  Devil  on't;  well,  go;  1*1  follow  you 
behind  like  a  long  Rapier.  {ExamU 

318 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Scene  7. 

Aurelia. 

Aur.  If  they  would  allow  me  but  a  little  time,  I  could  play 
such  a  trick  with  Mr.  Truman^  as  should  smart  sorely  for  the 
rest  of  his  Life,  and  be  reveng'd  abundantly  on  my  Cozen,  for 
getting  of  him  from  me,  when  I  was  such  a  foolish  Girl  three 

SKur  ago  as  to  be  in  Love  with  him. 
ut  they  would  have  us  marri'd  instantly. 
The  Parson  stays  for  us  at  Church.     I  know  not  what  to  do — 
all  must  out — Odds  my  life  he 's  coming  to  fetch  me  here  to 
Church  already. 

Scene  8. 

Enter  Truman  Junior. 

Trum.  j.     I  must  go  through  with  it  now ;  I  *1  marry  her, 
And  live  with  her  according  to  the  forms. 
But  I  will  never  touch  her  as  a  Woman. 
She  stays  for  me — Madam — 

Aur.     Sir. 

Trum.  j.     I  cannot  out  with  it — Madam. 

Aur.     Sir — 

Trum.  j.     Must  we  go  marry.  Madam  ? 

Aur.     Our  friends  will  have  it  so,  it  seems. 

Trum.     Why  will  you  marry  me?    what  is  there  in  me 
That  can  deserve  your  liking  ?   I  shall  be 
The  most  untoward  and  ill-favour'd  Husband 
That  ever  took  a  melting  Maid  t'  his  Bed ; 
The  Acuities  of  my  Soul  are  all  untuned. 
And  every  Glory  of  my  Springing  youth 
Is  fain  into  a  strange  and  suddain  Winter, 
You  cannot  Love  me  sure. 

Aur.     Not  to  DistraSion,  Sir. 

Trum.     No,  nor  I  you;    why  should  we  marry  then? 
It  were  a  folly,  were  it  not,  Aureliaf 

319 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Aur.  Why  they  say,  'tis  the  best  marriage,  when  h'ke  is 
JoynM  to  like;  now  we  shall  make  a  very  even  match,  for 
neither  you  Love  me,  nor  I  Love  you,  and  tis  to  be  hop'd  we 
may  get  Children  that  will  Love  neither  of  us. 

Trum.     Nay,  by  my  soul  I  love  you,  but  alas. 
Not  in  that  way  that  Husbands  should  their  Wives ; 
I  cannot  Toy,  nor  Kiss,  nor  do  I  know  not  what. 
And  yet  I  was  a  Lover,  as  true  a  Lover — 

Aur,     Alack  a  day ! 

Trum,     *Twas  then,  (me-thoughts)  the  only  happiness 
To  sit  and  talk,  and  look  upon  my  Mistriss, 
Or  if  she  was  not  by,  to  think  upon  her; 
Then  every  Morning,  next  to  my  Devotion, 
Nay  often  too  (forgive  me  Heaven)  before  it. 
She  slipt  into  my  ^ncy,  and  I  took  it 
As  a  good  Omen  for  the  following  day; 
It  was  a  pretty  foolish  kind  of  Life, 
An  honest,  harmless  Vanity;    but  now 
The  fairest  Face  moves  me  no  more,  than  Snow 
Or  Lillies  when  I  see  'em,  and  pass  by; 
And  I  as  soon  should  deeply  Bdl  in  Love 
With  the  fresh  Scarlet  of  an  Eastern  Cloud, 
As  the  Red  Lips  and  Cheeks  of  any  Woman ; 
I  do  confess,  Aurelia^  thou  art  Fair, 
And  very  Witty,  and  (I  think)  Well-natur'd, 
But  thou  'rt  a  Woman  still. 

Aur,     The  sight  of  you  Sir, 
Makes  me  not  repent  at  all  my  being  so. 

Trum.     And  prethee  now,  Aurelia^  tell  me  truly. 
Are  any  Women  constant  in  their  Vows? 
Can  they  continue  a  whole  Moneth,  a  Week, 
And  never  change  their  faith  ?    Oh  !    if  they  could. 
They  would  be  excellent  things ;   nay  ne're  dissemble ; 
Are  not  their  Lusts  unruly,  and  to  them 
Such  Tyrants  as  their  Beauties  are  to  us  ? 
Are  their  tears  true,  and  solid  when  they  weep? 

Aur,     Sure  Mr.  Truman  you  ha'nt  slept  of  late. 
If  we  should  be  marry'd  to  Night,  what  would  you  do  for 
Sleep? 

Trum.     Why?   do  not  marry'd  people  sleep  o'  Nights? 

Sao 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Aur.    Yes!   yes!   alas  good  innocence. 

Trum.    They  have  a  scurvy  Life  on  't  if  they  don't; 
But  wee'l  not  Live  as  other  people  do, 
Wec'l  find  out  some  new  handsome  way  of  Love, 
Some  way  of  Love  that  few  shall  imitate, 
Yet  all  admire;   for  'tis  a  sordid  thing, 
That  Lust  should  dare  t'  insinuate  it  self 
Into  the  Marriage-bed;    wee'l  get  no  Children, 
The  worst  of  Men  and  Women  can  do  that; 
Besides  too,  if  our  Issue  should  be  Female, 
They  would  all  Learn  to  flatter  and  dissemble. 
They  would  deceive  with  Promises  and  Vows 
Some  simple  men,  and  then  prove  False  and  Kill  'em, 
Woidd  they  not  do't,  Aurelia? 

Aur.    I,  any  thing  Mr.  Truman;    but  what   shall   we   do 
Sir,  when  we  are  marrv'd,  pray? 

Trum.     Why !    wee  1  live  very  Lovingly  together, 
Sometimes  wee'l  sit  and  talk  of  excellent  things. 
And  laugh  at  all  the  Nonsence  of  the  world ; 
Sometimes  weel  walk  together. 
Sometimes  wee'l    read,   and   sometimes   eat,   and   sometimes 

sleep; 
And  sometimes  pray,  and  then  at  last,  wee'l  dye. 
And  go  to  Heaven  together ;    'twill  be  rare ! 

Aur.     We  may  do  all  this  (me-thinks)  and  never  marry  for 
the  matter. 

Trum.     'Tis  true,  we  may  so  I 
But  since  our  Parents  are  resolv'd  upon  it. 
In  such  a  Circumstance  let  'em  have  their  humor. 
My  father  sent  me  in  to  Complement, 
And  keep  a  Prating  here,  and  play  the  Fool ; 
I  cannot  do't,  what  should  I  say,  Aurelia? 
What  do  thev  use  to  say? 

Aur.     I  beueve  you  knew  Sir,  when  you  Woo'd  my  Cozen. 

Trum.    I,  but  those  Days  are  past;    they'r  gon  for  ever^ 
And  nothine  else,  but  Nights  are  to  succeed  'em ; 
Gone  like  the  faith  and  truth  of  Women  kind. 
And  never  to  be  seen  again  !    O  Lucia ! 
Thou  wast  a  woundrous  Angel  in  those  days  of  thy  blest  state 
of  Innocence. 

c  n.  X  3ai 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

There  was  a  Cheek  I   a  Fore-head  !   and  an  Eye  ! — 
Did  you  observe  her  Eye,  Aurelia? 

Aur,     O  yes  Sir!    there  were  very  pretty  Babies  in*t. 

Trum.     It  was  as  glorious  as  the  Eye  of  Heaven ; 
Like  the  souls  Eye  it  peirc'd  through  every  thing; 
And  then  her  Hands — her  Hands  of  Liquid  Ivory ! 
Did  she  but  touch  her  Lute  (the  pleasing'st  Harmony  then 

upon  Earth  when  she  her  self  was  silent) 
The  subtil  motion  of  her  Flying  fingers 
Taught  Musique  a  New  art,  to  take  the  Sight,  as  wd  as  Ear. 

Aur.     I,  Sir,  I  I    you  'd  best  go  look  her  out,  and  many 
her,  she  has  but  one  Husband  yet. 

Trum.     Nay,  prethee,  good  Aurelia  be  not  angry. 
For  I  will  never  Love  or  See  her  more. 
I  do  not  say  she  was  more  Fair  than  thou  art, 
Yet  if  I  dia  ?    No,  but  I  wo  'not  say  so  I 
Only  allow  me  this  one  short  last  remembrance  of  one  I  lovM 
so  long.     And  now  I  think  on 't,  I  '1  beg  a  favour  of  you,  you 
will  Laugh  at  me  I  know,  when  you  have  heard  it,  but  prethee 
grant  it ;  'tis  that  you  would  be  Veil'd,  as  Lucia  was  of  late,  for 
this  one  day ;  I  would  fain  marry  thee  so ; 
*Tis  an  odd  foolish  fancy,  I  confess, 
But  Love  and  Grief  may  be  allow'd  sometimes 
A  little  Innocent  folly. 

Aur,     Good  !  this  Fool  will  help  me  I  see  to  cheat  himself; 
At  a  dead  lift,  a  little  hint  will  serve  me. 
I'l  do't  for  him  to  the  Life. 

Trum.     Will  you  Aurelia? 

Aur.  That 's  but  a  small  Compliance ;  you  '1  ha*  power 
anon  to  Command  me  greater  things. 

Trum.     We  shall  be  marry'd  very  privately; 
None  but  our  selves ;    and  that 's  e'en  best,  Aurelia. 
Why  do  I  stick  here  at  a  Fatal  step 
That  must  be  made?     Aurelia^  are  you  ready .^ 
The  Minister  stays  for  us. 

Aur.  I  '1  but  go  in  and  take  my  Veil,  as  you  Command  me 
Sir ;  Walk  but  a  few  turns  in  the  Garden,  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  I'l  come  to  you,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  [Exit. 

Trum.     I  go,  I  am  Condemn'd,  and  must  Obey  ; 
The  Executioner  stays  for  me  at  Church.  [Exit. 

221 


CUTTER   OF  COLEMAN-STREET 


Aft  5.     Scene   i. 

Cohml  J0II7,  WiU. 

yM.  00,  I  have  her  at  last,  and  honest  Joseph  Knock-^awn 
\J  married  us,  me-thinks,  with  convenient  brevity; 
I  have  some  hold  now  upon  my  Estate  again  (though  she,  I 
confess,  be  a  clog  upon  it  worse  than  a  Mort-gage)  that,  my 
good  Neighbour  BarebottU^  left  wholly  to  his  wife ;  almost  all 
the  rest  of  the  Incomes  upon  his  seeking,  go  to  his  daughter 
TaHthaj  whom  Cutur  has  got  by  this  time,  and  promises  me  to 
live  like  an  honest  Gentleman  hereafter;  now  he  may  do  so 
comfortably  and  merrily.  She  marriM  me  thus  suddenly,  like 
a  good  Housewife,  purely  to  save  charges;  however  thoueh, 
we  '1  have  a  good  Supper  for  her,  and  her  eating  Tribe ;  Irilly 
is  the  Cook  a  doing  according  to  my  dire£tions  r 

fFilL  Yes,  Sir,  he's  very  hard  at  his  business;  he's  swearing 
and  cursing  in  the  Kitchin,  that  vour  Worship  may  hear  him 
hither^  he^  fright  my  new  old  Mistris  out  of  the  house. 

y»ll.  Tis  such  an  over-roasted  coxcomb — bid  him  be  sure 
to  season  well  the  Venison  that  came  in  luckily  to  day. 

ff^iU.  Troth,  Sir,  I  dare  not  speak  to  him  now,  unless 
I  shotdd  put  on  your  Worship's  Armour  that  lies  hid  in  the 
Barel  below;  he 'd  like  to  ha' spitted  me  just  now,  like  a  Goose 
as  I  was,  for  telling  him  he  look'd  like  the  Ox  that 's  roasted 
whole  in  St.  Jameses  Fair.     Who's  there? 

7#//.  See  who 's  at  door.  I  shall  ha'  some  plundred  Plate, 
I  hope,  to  entertain  my  friends  with,  when  we  come  to  visit 
the  Truncks  with  Iron  hoops;   who  is't. 

fyUL  Nay,  Heaven  knows,  Sir;  two  Fiends,  I  think,  to 
take  away  the  Cook  for  swearing.    They  ha'  thrust  in  after  me. 


X2  yL\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Scene  2. 

Enter  Worm  and  Puny  disguised  liki  the  Merchant  and  John. 

fVor.    They 'I   hardly  know  us  at  first    in    these  forein 
habits. 

Pun,  I  Sir,  and  as  the  Sun  has  us'd  us  in  those  hot 
Coimtries. 

Wor,  Why,  this  is  my  old  house  here,  Johni  ha,  ha  !  little 
thought  I  to  see  my  old  house  upon  Tower-bill  again.  Where 's 
my  brother  Jolly? 

JolL     Tney  call  me  Colonel  Jolly, 

Wor,  Ha  f  let  me  see,  [Looks  on  his  NoteJ]  A  burlv  man 
of  a  moderate  stature — a  beard  a  little  greyish — ha !  a  quick  Eye, 
and  a  Nose  inclining  to  red — 

Pun,  Nay,  'tis  my  Master's  Worship,  Sir,  would  we  were 
no  more  alter'd  since  our  Travels. 

ff^or.  It  agrees  very  well — Save  you  good  brother,  you  little 
thought  to  see  me  here  again,  though  I  dare  say  you  wish'd  it ; 
stay,  let  me  see,  how  many  years,  John^  is 't  since  we  went 
from  hence  ? 

Pun,     'Tis  now  seven  years.  Sir. 

ff^or.  Seven  ?  me-thinks  I  was  here  but  yesterday,  how  the 
what  de-ye-call-it  runs  ?  how  do  you  call  it  ? 

Pun,     The  Time,  Sir. 

ff^or.  I,  I,  the  time,  John ;  what  was  I  saying?  I  was  telling 
you,  brother,  that  I  had  quite  forgot  you  ^  was  I  not  telling  him 
so  J  John  ? 

foil.  Faith  we  'r  both  quits  then  ;  I  '1  swear  I  ha'  forgot 
you ;    why  you  were  dead  five  years  ago. 

ff^or.  Was  I  ?  I  ha*  quite  forgot  it ;  Johny  vras  I  dead  five 
years  ago?    my  memory  fails  me  very  much  of  late. 

Pun,  We  were  worse  than  dead.  Sir,  we  were  taken  by  a 
barbarous  Nation,  and  there  made  slaves;  John^  quoth  he? 
I  was  poor  John  I'm  sure;  they  kept  us  three  whole  years 
with  nothing  but  Water  and  Acorns,  till  we  look'd  like  Wicker 
bottles. 

ff^or.  What,  Sirrah,  did  your  Master  look  like  ?  I  *1  teach 
you  to  say  your  Master  look'd  like  what  de-ye-call  'umt. 

3H 


CUTTER   OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

y$lL     Where  did  they  take  you  prisoners? 

jy^r.  Nay,  ask  John^  he  can  tell  you  I  warrant  you  ;  'twas 
in — tell  him,  Tfohny  where  it  was. 

Pun.     In  Guiny. 

yolL     By  what  Country-men  were  vou  taken  ? 

jyor.  Why  they  were  called — I  ha  forgot  what  they  call 
'em,  'twas  an  odd  kind  o'  name,  but  John  can  tell  you. 

Pun,  Who  I,  Sir?  do  you  think  I  can  remember  all 
things? 

fror.  Tis  i'  my  Book  here  I  remember  well.  Name  any 
Nation  under  the  Sun. 

Pun.  I  know  the  name.  Sir,  well  enough ;  but  I  onely  try'd 
my  Master's  memory,  'Twas  the  Tartarians. 

ff^or.     I,  I,  those  were  the  men. 

y^lL  How,  John  ?  why  all  the  world  man  lies  betwixt  'em, 
they  live  up  in  the  North. 

Pun.     The  North? 

?olL     I  the  very  North,  John, 
un.     That's  true  indeed,  but  these  were  another  Nation  of 
Tartarians  that  liv'd  in  the  South,  they  came  antiently  from 
the  others. 

JoU.     How  got  you  from  *em,  Johuy  at  last  ? 
run.     Why  fiiith.  Sir,  by  a  Ladle's  means,  who,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  fell  in  love  with  me ;  my  Master  has  it  all  in  his 
Book,  'tis  a  brave  story. 


?olL     In  what  Ship  came  you  back? 


^un.     A  plague  oft,  that  question  will  be  our  mine. 

War.  What  Ship  ?  'twas  cdl'd  a  thing  that  swims,  what 
dee  you  call 't  ? 

7#//.     The  Mermaid? 

Jf^or.     No,  no,  let  me  see. 

7#//.     The  Triton? 

Wor,  No,  no,  a  thing  that  in  the  water  does — it  swims  in 
the  water — 

Joll.     What  is 't  ?    the  Dolphin  ? 

JVor.     No,  no,  I  ha'  quite  forgot  the  name  on 't,  but  'tis  no 


matter,  it  swims — 


?#//.     What  say  you,  John? 
un.     I,  Sir,  my  Master  knows  well  enough  ;  you  cann't 
conceive  the  misery  we  endur'd.  Sir. 

3^5 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

JolL  Welly  Brother,  IM  but  ask  you  one  question  morep 
where  did  you  leave  your  Will  ? 

Pun.  'Life,  now  he's  pos'd  again — we  shall  never  carry 't 
through. 

Wor.  I'l  tell  you  presently.  Brother — let  me  see,  [Riods 
in  his  ScrowL]  Memorandums  about  my  Will ;  left  to  my 
Brother  the  whole  charge  of  my  Estate — ^hum — hum — ^five 
thousand  pounds — hum— What  did  you  ask  me,  brother? 

Joll.     In  what  place  you  left  your  Will? 

Wor.  I  that  was  it  indeed — ,  that  was  the  very  thing  you 
ask'd  me ;  what  a  treacherous  memory  have  1 1  my  memory 
is  so  short — 

Joll.     This  is  no  Answer  to  my  Question  yet 

Jf^or.     'Tis  true  indeed  ;  what  was  your  Question,  brother? 

Joll.    Where  you  left  your  Will  ? 

Jf^or.  Good  Lord,  that  I  should  forget  you  ask'd  me  that  I 
I  had  forgot  it,  i'  faith  law  that  I  had,  you  '1  pardon,  I  hope, 
my  Infirmity,  for  I  alas — alas — I  ha'  forgot  what  I  wsis  going 
to  say  to  you,  but  I  was  saying  something,  that  I  was. 

yoll.  Well,  Gentlemen,  I  'm  now  in  haste,  walk  but  a  while 
into  the  Parlour  there,  I  '1  come  to  you  presently. 

Hy^or.     But  where 's  my  daughter — 

Pun.     Lucioy  Sir  ? 

ff^or.  I,  Lucia — put  me  in  mind  to  ask  for  her  (a  fhgat 
o'  your  Tartarians.) 

Fun.     And  o' your  What  dee-ye-call-'ems. 

ff^or.     'Life,  Tartarians ! 

[Exeunt  Worm,  Puny. 

yoll.  If  these  be  Rogues,  (as  Rogues  they  seem  to  be)  I 
will  so  exercise  my  Rogues,  the  tyranny  of  a  new  Beadle  over 
a  Beggar  shall  be  nothing  to 't ;  what  think'st  thou  of  *em, 
ffillT 

Will.  Faith,  Sir,  I  know  not — h'as  just  my  Masters  Nose 
and  Upper-lip  i  but  if  you  think  it  be  not  he.  Sir,  I'l  beat 'em 
worse  than  the  Tartarians  did. 

Joll.  No,  let 's  try  'em  first — trick  for  trick — Thou  were 
wont  to  be  a  precious  Knave,  and  a  great  A£tor  too,  a  very 
Roscius;  did'st  not  thou  play  once  the  Clown  in  Musidarusf 

mil.     No,  but  I  plaid  the  Bear,  Sir. 

Joll.     The  Bear !  why  that 's  as  good  a  Part ;  thou  'rt  an 

326 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Adtor  then  I  '1  warrant  thee,  the  Bears  a  well-penn'd  Part, 
and  you  remember  my  Brother's  himior,  don't  you?  They 
have  ahnost  hit  it. 

WilL  I,  Sir,  I  knew  the  shortness  of  his  memory,  he  would 
always  forget  to  pay  me  my  Wages,  till  he  was  put  in  mind 
oft. 

JolL  Well  said,  I  '1  dress  thee  within,  and  all  the  Servants 
shall  acknowledge  thee,  you  conceive  the  Design — ^be  confident, 
and  thou  ca[n]st  not  miss ;  but  who  shall  do  trusty  John  ? 

fVilL  Oh,  Ralph  the  Butler,  Sir,'s  an  excellent  try'd  Adtor, 
he  playM  a  King  once ;  I  ha'  heard  him  speak  a  Play  ex  tempore 
in  the  Butteries. 

JolL  O  excellent  Ralph!  incomparable  Ralph  against  the 
world  !  Come  away  William^  I  '1  give  you  instrudiions  within, 
it  must  be  done  in  a  moment.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  3. 

Enter  Aurelia,  Jane. 

Jane*  Ha,  ha,  ha !  this  is  the  best  Plot  o'  yours,  dear 
Madam,  to  marry  me  to  Mr.  Truman  in  a  Veil  instead  of  your 
self;  I  cann't  chuse  but  laugh  at  the  very  conceit  oft ;  'twill 
make  excellent  sport :  My  Mistris  will  be  so  mad  when  she 
knows  that  I  have  got  her  Servant  from  her,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Aur,  Well,  are  you  ready?  Veil  your  self  all  over,  and 
never  speak  one  word  to  him,  what  ever  he  says,  (he  '1  ha'  no 
mind  to  talk  much)  but  give  him  your  hand,  and  go  along  with 
him  to  Church  ;  and  when  you  come  to,  I  take  thee — mumble 
it  over  that  he  mayn't  distinguish  the  voice. 

Jane,  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  cann't  speak  for  laughing — dear  hony 
Madam,  let  me  but  go  in  and  put  on  a  couple  o'  Patches ;  you 
cann't  imagine  how  much  prettier  I  look  with  a  Lozenge  under 
the  Left  Eye,  and  a  Half  Moon  o'  this  cheek ;  and  then  I  'le 
but  slip  on  the  Silver-lac'd  Shoes  that  you  gave  me,  and  be  with 
him  in  a  trice. 

Aur.  Don't  stay,  he 's  a  fentastical  fellow,  if  the  whimsey 
take  him  he  '1  be  gone.  [Exeunt. 

327 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Scene  4. 

Lucia. 

They  say  he's  to  pass  instantly  this  way 
To  lead  his  Bride  to  Church ;   ingrateful  Man  I 
I ']  stand  here  to  upbraid  his  guilty  Conscience, 
And  in  that  blaclc  attire  in  which  he  saw  me 
When  he  spolce  the  last  kind  words  to  mc ; 
'Twill  now  befit  my  sorrows,  and  the  Widow-hood   of  my 

Love; 
He  comes  alone,  what  can  that  mean  i 

Scene  5. 

Enttr  Truman  junior. 

Trum,     Come,  Madam,  the  Priest  stays  for  US  too  long; 
I  ask  your  pardon  for  my  dull  delay. 
And  am  asham'd  oft. 

Luc.     What  does  he  mean  ?  I  'I  go  with  him  what  e'er  it 
mean.  lExmil. 

Scene  6. 

Enter  Cutter,  Tabitha,  Boy. 

Cut.     Come  to  my  bed,  my  dear,  my  dear,  {Sii^t. 

My  dear  come  to  my  bed. 
For  the  pleasant  pain,  and  the  loss  with  gain 

Is  the  loss  of  a  Maidenhead. 
For  the  pleasant,  etc. 
Tab.     Is  that  a  Psalm,  Brother  Husband,  which  jrou  sing? 
Cut.     No,  Sister  Wife,  a  short  Ejaculation  onely. 
Well  said,  Boy,  bring  in  the  things,— — (Bey  hringi  a  Hat  and 
Feather^  Sword  and  Belty  bread  Lac^d  Band^  and  Periwig. 

Tab.     What  do  you  mean,  Brother  Abednepf  you  will  not 
turn  Cavalier,  I  hope,  again,  you  will  not  open  before  Sim  in 
the  dressings  of  Babyltnc 
328 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Cut.  What  do  these  cloathes  befit  Queen  Tabitha^s  husband 
upon  her  day  o'  Nuptials  ?  this  Hat  with  a  high  black  chimney 
for  a  crown,  and  a  brim  no  broader  than  a  Hatband  ?  Shall  I, 
who  am  to  ride  the  Purple  Dromedary,  go  drest  like  Revelation 
Fats  the  Basket-maker?  Give  me  the  Peruique,  Boy;  shall 
Empress  Tabitha^s  husband  go  as  if  his  head  were  scalded  ?  or 
wear  the  Seam  of  a  shirt  here  for  a  Band  ?  Shall  I  who  am 
zealous  even  to  slaying,  walk  in  the  streets  without  a  Sword,  and 
not  dare  to  thrust  men  from  the  wall,  if  any  shall  presume  to 
take  *t  of  Empress  Tabitha  ?    Are  the  Fidlers  coming.  Boy  ? 

Tab.  Pish,  I  cannot  abide  these  doings ;  are  you  mad  ?  there 
come  no  prophane  Fidlers  here. 

Cut.  Be  peaceable  gentle  Tabitha ;  they  will  not  bring  the 
Organs  with  them  hither ;  I  say  be  peaceable,  and  conform  to 
Revelations ;  It  was  the  Vision  bad  me  do  this ;  Wil't  thou 
resist  the  Vision  ? 

Tab.  An'  these  be  your  Visions !  little  did  I  think  I  wusse — 
O  what  shall  I  do  ?  is  this  your  Conversion  ?  which  of  all  the 
Prophets  wore  such  a  Map  about  their  Ears,  or  such  a  Sheet 
about  their  Necks  ?  Oh  !  my  Mother !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I'm  undone. 

Cut.  What  shalt  thou  do  ?  why,  thou  shalt  Dance,  and 
Sing,  and  Drink,  and  be  Merry  \  thou  shalt  go  with  thy  Hair 
Curl'd,  and  thy  Brests  Open  ;  thou  shalt  wear  fine  black  Stars 
upon  thv  Face,  and  Bobs  in  thy  Ears  bigger  than  bouncing 
Pears ;  Kay,  if  thou  do'st  begin  but  to  look  rustily — I M  ha 
thee  Paint  thy  self,  like  the  whore  o'  Babylon. 

Tab.     Oh  !    that  ever  I  was  Born  to  see  this  day — 

Cut.  What,  dost  thou  weep.  Queen  Dido?  thou  shalt  ha' 
Sack  to  drive  away  thy  Sorrows  ;  bring  in  the  Bottle,  Boy,  I  '1 
be  a  Loving  Husband,  the  Vision  must  be  Obey'd ;  Sing 
Tabitha;  Weep  o'  thy  Wedding  day  ?  'tis  ominous ;  Come  to 
my  Bed  my  Dear,  etc. 

On,  art  thou  come  Boy?  fill  a  Brimmer,  nay,  fuller  yet,  yet  a 
little  fuller  !     Here  Lady  Spouse,  here 's  to  our  sport  at  Night. 

Tab.  Drink  it  your  self,  an  you  will ;  I  '1  not  touch  it,  not  I. 

Cut.  By  this  hand  thou  shal  't  pledge  me,  seeing  the  Vision 
said  so;  Drink,  or  I'l  take  a  Coach,  and  carry  thee  to  the 
Opera  immediately. 

Tab.    Oh  Lord,  I  can't  abide  it—  [Drinks  off. 

329 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut.  Why,  this  will  chear  thy  Heart ;  Sack,  and  a  Husband  ? 
both  comfortable  things ;  have  at  you  agen. 

Tab.     I'l  pledge  you  no  more,  not  I. 

Cut.  Here  take  the  Glass,  and  take  it  off— off  every  drop, 
or  I  '1  swear  a  hundred  Oaths  in  a  breathing  time. 

Tab,     Well  !    you  'r  the  strangest  man —  IDrinis. 

Cut.  Why,  this  is  right ;  nay,  off  with  't ;  so — but  the 
Vision  said,  that  if  we  left  our  Drink  behind  us  we  should  be 
Hang'd,  as  many  other  Honest  men  ha'  been,  only  by  a  little 
negligence  in  the  like  case  ;  Here 's  to  you  Tabitha  once  agen, 
we  must  fulfill  the  Vision  to  a  Tittle. 

Tab.  What  must  I  drink  agen  ?  well !  you  are  such  another 
Brother — Husband. 

Cut.  Bravely  done,  Tabitha  !  now  thou  Obey'st  the  Vision, 
thou  wil't  ha'  Revelations  presently. 

Tab.  Oh  !  Lord !  my  Head's  giddy — nay.  Brother,  Husband, 
the  Boy's  taking  away  the  Bottle,  and  there's  another  Glass  or 
two  in  it  still. 

Cut.  O  Villainous  Boy  !  fill  out  you  Bastard,  and  squeeze 
out  the  last  drop. 

Tab.  I  '1  drink  to  you  now,  my  Dear ;  'tis  not  handsome 
for  you  to  begin  always — [Drinks.']  Come  to  my  Bed  my  Dear, 
and  how  wast  ?  'twas  a  pretty  Song,  me-thoughts. 

Cut.  O  Divine  Tabitha  f  here  come  the  Fidlers  too,  strike 
up  ye  Rogues. 

Tab.  What  must  we  Dance  too  ?  is  that  the  Fashion  ? 
I  could  ha'  danc'd  the  Curranto  when  I  was  a  Girl,  the  Cur- 
ranto's  a  curious  Dance. 

Cut.  We  '1  out-dance  the  Dancing  disease ;  but  Tabithay 
there's  one  poor  Health  left  still  to  be  drunk  with  Musique. 

Tab.  Let  me  begin 't ;  here  Duck,  here 's  to  all  that  Ix>ve 
us.  [Drinki. 

Cut.  A  Health,  ye  Eternal  Scrapers,  sound  a  Health  ;  rarely 
done  Tabithay  what  think'st  thou  now  o'  thy  Mother  i 

Tab.  A  fig  for  mv  Mother ;  I  '1  be  a  Mother  my  self  shortly; 
Come  Duckling,  shall  we  go  home  ? 

Cut.  Go  home  ?  the  Bride-groom  and  his  Spouse  go  home  ? 
no,  we  '1  Dance  home ;  afore  us  Squeakers,  that  way,  and  be 
Hane'd  you  Sempiternal  Rakers.  O  brave  !  Queen  Tabitha  I 
Excellent  Empress  Tabitha^  on  ye  Rogues  !  [^Exiunt. 

330 


CUTTER   OF   COLEMAN-STREET 

Scene  7. 

Enter  Jolly,  Worm,  Puny. 

fVer*     But  where's  my  what  dee  ye  call  her,  Brother  ? 

20U.     What  Sir? 
^«r.     {Reads.)    My  Daughter — Lucia^  a  pretty  fiiir  Com- 
eexioned  Girl,  with  a   Black   Eye,  a  Round  Chin,  a  little 
impled,  and  a  Mole  upon — I  would  fain  see  my  daughter — 
Brother. 

y^lL  Why,  you  shall  Sir  presently,  she 's  very  well ;  what 
Noise  is  that  ?   how  now  ?   what 's  the  matter  ? 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Ho !  my  old  Master !  my  old  Master's  come,  he 's 
Lighted  just  now  at  the  door  with  his  man  yohn  ;  he 's  asking 
for  you,  he  longs  to  see  you  ;  my  Master,  my  old  Master. 

J9IL     This  fellow  *s  Mad. 

Serv.  If  you  wo'nt  believe  me,  go  but  in  and  see  Sir  ;  he 's 
not  so  much  alter'd,  but  you  '1  quickly  know  him,  I  knew  him 
before  he  was  Lighted,  pray,  go  in  Sir. 

y«//.  Why,  this  is  strange — there  was  indeed  some  weeks 
since  a  report  at  the  Exchange  that  he  was  Alive  still,  which 
was  brought  by  a  Ship  that  came  from  Barbary;  but  that  he 
should  be  Split  in  two  after  his  Death,  and  Live  agen  in  both, 
is  wonderfull  to  me.     I  '1  go  see  what 's  the  matter. 

[Exeunt  Jolly,  Servant. 

Pun.     I  begin  to  shake  like  a  Plum-tree  Leaf. 

fVor,  Tis  a  meer  Plot  o'  the  Devils  to  have  us  beaten,  if  he 
send  him  in  just  at  this  Nick. 

Scene  8. 

Enter  Ralph  {as  John)  and  two  or  three  Servants. 

1.  Serv.     Ah  Rogue,  art  thou  come  at  last? 

2.  Serv.  Why,  you'l  not  look  upon  your  Old  friends  !  give 
me  your  Golls,  John. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Ral.  Thank  ye  all  heartiljr  for  jrour  Love  ;  thank  you  with 
all  my  Heart ;  my  old  Bed-feUow,  Robin^  and  how  Qot%  little 
Ginny  do  ? 

3.  Serv.  A  murren  take  you,  you  M  ne're  leave  your 
Waggery. 

Pun.  A  murren  take  ye  all,  I  shall  be  paid  the  Portion  here 
with  a  witness. 

Ral.  And  how  does  Ralph  ?  good  honest  Ralph ;  there  is 
not  an  honester  Fellow  in  Christendome^  though  I  say 't  my  self, 
that  should  not  say 't. 

2.  Serv.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Why  Ralph  the  Rogue  *8  well  still ; 
Come  let 's  eo  to  him  into  the  Buttery,  he  '1  be  Oveijoy'd  to 
see  thee,  and  give  us  a  Cup  o'  the  best  Stineo  there. 

Ral.  Well  said ;  Steel  to  the  back  still  Robin ;  that  was 
your  word  you  know;  my  Master's  coming  in  !  go,  go,  II 
follow  you. 

I.  Serv.     Make  haste,  good  John. 

Ral.  Here's  a  Company  of  as  honest  Fellow-servants ;  I'm 
glad,  I'm  come  among  'em  agen. 

If^or.  And  would  I  were  got  out  from  'em,  as  honest  as  thcjr 
are ;  that  Robin  has  a  thrashing  hand. 

Pun.  John  with  a  Pox  to  him  !  would  I  were  hid  like  a 
Maggot  in  a  Pescod. 


Scene  9. 

Enter  Jolly,  William. 

Joll.     Me-thinks  you  'r  not  return'd,  but  born  to  us  anew. 

W'ill.  Thank  you  good  Brother  j  truly  we  ha*  past  through 
many  dangers ;  my  man  John  shall  tell  you  all,  I  'm  Old  and 
Crazie. 

Enter  Servant. 

4.  Serv.  Sir,  the  Widdow  (my  Mistriss  I  should  say)  u 
coming  in  here  with  Mr.  Knock^down^  and  four  or  five  more. 

Joll.  O'ds  my  Life  !  this  farce  is  neither  of  Dodtrine  nor 
Use  to  them  !  keep  'em  here,  John^  till  I  come  back. 

{Exit  J0U7. 

332 


I 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

IVor,  I  *m  glad  the  Colonel's  gone ;  now  will  I  sneak  away, 
as  if  I  had  stoln  a  Silver  spoon. 

Will.  Who  are  those,  John  ?  by  your  leave  Sir,  would  you 
speak  with  any  body  here  r 

Wor.  The  Colonel,  Sir  ?  but  I  '1  take  some  other  time  to 
wait  upon  him,  my  occasions  call  me  now. 

fyUL  Pray  stay,  Sir,  who  did  you  say  you  would  ha*  spoken 
with? 

fVor.  The  Colonel,  Sir ;  but  another  time  will  serve ;  he 
has  business  now. 

fFilL     Whom  would  he  speak  with,  John  ?   I  forget  still. 

RaL    The  Colonel,  Sir. 

JVilL     Colonel !   what  Colonel  ? 

Wvr,  Your  brother,  I  suppose  he  is  Sir,  but  another 
time — 

WiU,  'Tis  true  indeed ;  I  had  forgot,  I&ith,  my  Brother 
was  a  Colonel ;  I  cry  you  mercy  Sir,  he  '1  be  here  presently. 
Ye  seem  to  be  Foreiners  by  your  habits.  Gentlemen. 

Wvr.     No  Sir,  we  are  English-men. 

WilL  English-men  ?  law  you  there  now  !  would  you  ha* 
spoke  with  me.  Sir? 

Wvr.  No  Sir,  your  Brother ;  but  my  business  requires  no 
haste,  and  therefore — 

WiU.  YouV  not  in  haste,  you  say ;  pray  Sir,  sit  down  then, 
may  I  crave  your  name.  Sir  ? 

Wmr.     My  name's  not  worth  the  knowing  Sir — 

Will.     This  Gentleman? 

Wvr.     'Tis  my  man.  Sir,  his  name's  John, 

Pun.  I  '1  be  John  no  more,  not  I,  I  '1  be  Jackanapes  first ; 
No,  my  name's  Timothy  Sir. 

Will.  Mr.  John  Timothy ^  very  well,  Sirj  ye  seem  to  be 
Travellers. 

War.  We  are  just  now  as  you  see,  arriv'd  out  of  Afrique^ 
Sir,  and  therefore  have  some  business  that  requires — 

Will.  Of  AJriquef  law  ye  there  now;  what  Country, 
pray? 

Wor.  Pristir-John^s  Country ;  &re  you  well.  Sir,  for  the 
present,  I  must  be  excus'd. 

Will.  Marry  God  forbid ;  what  come  from  Prester^John^ 
and  we  not  Drink  a  Cup  o'  Sack  together. 

333 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

[Pun.]  What  shall  I  do?  Friend,  shall  I  trouble  you  to  shew 
me  a  private  place  ?  I  '1  wait  upon  you  presently  agen,  Sir. 

ff^ilL     You'l  stay  here  Master? — 

Pun.  I  '1  only  make  a  little  Maid's  water  Sir,  and  come 
back  to  you  immediately. 

Ral.  The  door's  lock'd  Sir,  the  Colonel  ha's  locked  us  in 
here — why  do  you  shake  Sir? 

Pun.  Nothing — only  I  have  extreme  list  to  make  water. 
Here's  the  Colonel,  I'l  sneak  behind  the  Hangings. 

Scene   i  o. 

Enter  Jolly,  Widdow. 

%//.  We'l  leave  those  Gentlemen  within  a  while  upon  the 
pomt  of  Reprobation  ;  but  Sweet  heart,  I  ha'  two  Brothers  here, 
newly  arriv'd,  which  you  must  be  acquainted  with. 

frid.  Marry,  Heaven  fore-shield !  not  the  Merchant  I 
hope? 

JolL     No,  brethren  in  Love,  only — How  dee  you  Brother  ? 

Jf^or.     I  your  Brother ;    what  de'e  mean  ? 

JolL  Why,  are  not  you  my  brother  Jolfyy  that  was  taken 
Prisoner  by  the  Southern  Tartars  ? 

Wor.     I  Brother,  I  by  Tartars? 

JolL  What  an  impudent  Slave  is  this  ?  Sirra,  Monster, 
did'st  thou  not  come  with  thy  man  John  ? 

Wor.  I  my  man  John  ?  here 's  no  such  person  here ;  you 
see  you'r  mistaken. 

JolL     Sirra,  I  '1  strike  thee  Dead. 

kVor.  Hold,  hold.  Sir,  I  do  remember  now  I  was  the 
Merchant  J  oily  ^  but  when  you  ask'd  me  I  had  quite  forgot  it ; 
alas,  I  'm  very  Crasie. 

JolL  That 's  not  amiss  ;  but  since  thou  art  not  he,  I  must 
know  who  thou  art. 

Wor.  Why,  do'nt  you  know  me?  I'm  Captain  fVimiy 
and  Puny  was  my  man  John. 

?olL     Where's  that  fool.  Puny?   is  he  slipt  away? 
un.     Yes,  and  no  fool  for't  neither  for  ought  I  know  yet 
ff'or.     Why,  we  hit  upon  this  frolique.  Colonel,  only  for  a 

334 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

kind  o'  Mask  (de'  jt  conceive  me,  Colonel  ?)  to  celebrate  your 
Nuptiak ;  Mr.  Puny  had  a  mind  to  reconcile  himself  with  you 
in  a  merry  way  o'  Drollery,  and  so  had  I  too,  though  I  hope 
you  were  not  in  earnest  with  me. 

JoU.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  well  said  fFill,  bravely  done  fTill, 
Ifiuth ;  I  told  thee,  ^i7/,  what  'twas  to  have  A£ied  a  Bear ; 
and  Ralph  was  an  excellent  John  too. 

ff^^r.  How 's  this  ?  then  I  'm  an  Ass  agen ;  this  damn*d 
Funics  Tearfulness  spoilM  all. 

Pun,  This  cursed  Coward  Worm  !  I  thought  they  were  not 
the  right  ones. 

yolL  Here's  something  for  you  to  drink  ;  go  look  to  Supper, 
this  is  your  Cue  of  Exit.  [Ex.  Will  and  Ralph. 

fyU,  What  need  you,  Love,  ha'  given  'em  any  thing  ?  in 
truth,  Love,  you'r  too  lavish. 

ff^or.     'Twas  wittily  put  off  o'  me  however. 


Scene   1 1 . 

Enter  Cutter,  Tabitha,  with  Fidlers. 

2olL  Here  are  more  Maskers  too,  I  think  \  this  Masking  is 
eavenly  entertainment  for  the  Widow,  who  ne'er  saw  any 
Shew  yet  but  the  Puppet-play  o'  Ninive, 

Cut.     Stay  without.  Scrapers. 

Tab.  Oh  Lord,  I'm  as  weary  with  Dancing  as  passes; 
Husband,  husband,  yonder 's  my  Mother ;  O  mother  what  do 
you  think  I  ha'  been  doing  to  day  ? 

ff^id.     Why  what.  Child?   no  hurt,  I  hope. 

Tab.  Nay  nothing,  I  have  onely  been  married  a  little,  and 
my  husband  Abednego  and  I  have  so  danc'd  it  since. 

Cut.  Brave  Tabitha  still ;  never  be  angry  Mother,  you 
know  where  Marriages  are  made,  your  Daughters  and  your 
own  were  made  in  the  same  place,  I  warrant  you,  they  r  so 
like. 

fVid.  Well,  his  will  be  done — there 's — no  resisting  Provi- 
dence— but  how,  son  Abednego^  come  you  into  that  roaring 
habit  of  Perdition  ? 

335 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Cut.  Mother,  I  was  commanded  by  the  Vision,  there  is 
some  great  end  for  it  of  Edification,  which  you  shall  know  hy 
the  sequel. 

Scene   1 2. 

Enter  Truman  senior^  Truman  Junior^  Lucia  veiled. 

Trum.  sen.     Come,  Dick^  bring  in  your  wife  to  your  t*  other 
father,  and  ask  hi[s]  blessing  handsomely ; 
Welcome,  dear  daughter ;    oiF  with  your  Veil ; 

{^Luc.  unveils. 
Heaven  bless  ye  both. 

JoU,  Ha  !  what 's  this ;  more  masking  ?  why  how  now, 
Mr.  Truman  ?  you  ha*  not  married  my  Niece,  I  nope,  instead 
o'  my  daughter  ? 

Trum,  j,     I  onely  did,  Sir,  as  I  was  appointed, 
And  am  amaz'd  as  much  as  you. 

Trum,  s.  Villain,  Rebel,  Traitor,  out  o'  my  sight  you  son 
of  a — 

Joll,  Nay,  hold  him ;  patience,  good  Mr.  Truman^  let  'i 
understand  the  matter  a  little — 

Trum,  s,  I  wo' not  understand,  no  that  I  wo*  not,  I  wo' not 
understand  a  word,  whilst  he  and  his  Whore  are  in  my  sight 

Joll,     Nay,  good  Sir — 
Why,  what  Niece  ?   two  husbands  in  one  afternoon  ?   that  'i 
too  much  o*  conscience. 

Luc,     Two,  Sir  ?   I  know  of  none  but  this. 
And  how  I  came  by  him  too,  that  I  know  not. 

Joll,  This  is  Ridle  me  ridle  me — where's  my  Daughter? 
ho  !  Aurella, 

Scene   13. 

Enter  Aurelia. 

Aur,     Here,  Sir,  I  was  just  coming  in. 

Joll.     Ha'  not  you  married  young  Mr.  Truman  f 

Aur.     No,  Sir. 

336 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

Joll.     Why,  who  then  has  he  marri'd? 

Aur.    Nay  that,  Sir,  he  may  answer  for  himself. 
If  he  be  of  age  to  marry. 

JolL  But  did  not  you  promise  me  you'd  marry  him  this 
afternoon,  and  go  to  Church  with  him  presently  to  do't. 

Aur.     But,  Sir,  my  Husband  forbad  the  Banes. 

y^lL     They  *re  all  mad  ;   your  Husband  ? 

Aur,  I  Sir,  the  truth  o'  the  matter,  Sir,  is  this,  (for  it  must 
out  I  see)  'twas  I  that  was  married  this  afternoon  in  the  Matted 
Chamber  to  Mr.  Punyy  instead  o'  my  Cousin  Lucia, 

JoJL     Stranger  and  stranger!    what,  and  he  not  know't? 

j/ur.     No,  nor  the  Parson,  Sir,  himself. 

JcII.     Hey  day  ! 

Aur,  'Twas  done  in  the  dark.  Sir,  and  I  veil'd  like  my 
Cousin  ;  'twas  a  very  clandestine  marriage,  I  confess,  but  there 
are  sufficient  proofs  of  it ;  and  for  one,  here 's  half  the  Piece 
of  Gold  he  broke  with  me,  which  he  '1  know  when  he  sees. 

Pun,  O  rare,  by  Hymen  I  'm  glad  o'  the  change ;  'tis  a 
pretty  Sorceress  by  my  troath  ;  Wit  to  Wit  quoth  the  Devil  to 
the  Lawyer ;  I  '1  out  amongst  'em  presently,  't  has  sav'd  me  a 
beating  too,  which  perhaps  is  all  her  Portion. 

yolL  You  turn  my  Head,  you  dizzie  me  ;  but  wouldst  thou 
marrie  him  without  either  knowing  my  mind,  or  so  much 
as  his? 

Aur,  His,  Sir  ?  he  gave  me  five  hundred  pieces  in  Gold  to 
make  the  Match ;  look,  they  are  here  still.  Sir. 

yolL  Thou  hast  lost  thy  senses.  Wench,  and  wilt  make  me 
do  so  toa 

Aur.  Briefly  the  truth  is  this.  Sir,  he  gave  me  these  five 
hundred  Pieces  to  marry  him  by  a  Trick  to  my  Cousin  Lucia^ 
and  by  another  Trick  I  took  the  money  and  married  him  my 
self;  the  manner.  Sir,  you  shall  know  anon  at  leisure,  onely 
your  pardon.  Sir,  for  the  omission  of  my  duty  to  you,  I  beg 
upon  my  knees. 

ydL  Nay,  Wench,  there 's  no  hurt  done,  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  a  year  is  no  ill  match  for  the  daughter  of  a  Sequestred 
Cavalier — 

Aur.     I  thought  so.  Sir. 

ydL  If  we  could  but  cure  him  of  some  sottish  affections, 
but  that  must  be  thy  task. 

c.  II  Y  337 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Aur.    My  life  on't,  Sir. 

Pun.  Vi  out;  Uncle  Father  jour  Blessing — my  little 
Matchivily  I  knew  well  enough  'twas  you  ;  what  did  you  think 
I  knew  not  Cross  from  Pile  ? 

Aur.     Did  you  i'  faith  ? 

Pun.     Ij  by  this  kiss  of  Amber-grees,  or  I  'm  a  Cabbage. 

Aur.     Why  then  you  out-witted  me,  and  I'm  content 

Pun.     A  pox  upon  you  Merchant  Jolfyy  are  you  there? 

Joll.  But  stay,  how  come  you,  hfiece,  to  be  marri'd  to 
Mr.  Truman? 

Luc.    I  know  not.  Sir,  as  I  was  walking  in  the  Garden. 

Trum.  J.  I  thought 't  had  been  •  .  •  but  blest  be  the 
mistake. 

What  ever  prove  the  Consequence  to  all 
The  less  important  fortunes  of  my  life. 

JolL     Nay,  there  's  no  hurt  done  here  neither — 

Trum.  s.  No  hurt,  Colonel?  I'l  see  him  hang'd  at  my 
door  before  he  shall  have  a  beggarly — 

Joll.  Hark  you,  Mr.  Truman^  one  word  aside  [Tali 
aside,]  (for  it  is  not  necessary  yet  my  wife  should  know  to 
much.) 

Aur.  This  foolish  Jane  (as  I  perceive  by  the  story)  has  lost 
a  Husband  by  staying  for  a  Black  patch. 

JolL  Though  I  in  rigour  by  my  brothers  Will  mieht  claim 
the  forfeiture  of  her  Estate,  vet  I  assure  you  she  shaU  have  it 
all  to  the  utmost  farthing  i  m  a  day  like  this,  when  Heaven 
bestows  on  me  and  on  my  daughter  so  unexpected  and  so  fair 
a  fortune,  it  were  an  ill  return  to  rob  an  Orphan  committed  to 
my  Charge. 

Aur.     My  father's  in  the  right. 
And  as  he  clears  her  Fortune,  so  will  I 
Her  Honor.     Hark  you.  Sir. 

Trum.  s.  Why  you  speak.  Sir,  like  a  Vertuous  Noble 
Gentleman,  and  do  just  as  I  should  do  my  self  in  the  same 
case  ;  it  is — 

Aur.  *Twas  I  upon  my  credit  in  a  Veil ;  [to  Trum.  jun. 
I M  tell,  if  you  please,  all  that  you  said,  when  you  had  read 
the  Letter.  But  d'  you  hear,  Mr.  Truman^  do  not  you  believe 
now  that  I  had  a  design  to  lie  with  you  (if  you  hao  consented 
to  my  coming  at  midnight)  for  upon  my  faith  I  had  not,  but 

338 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 

did  it  purely  to  try  upon  what  terms  your  two  Romantique 
Loves  stood. 

Cut.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  but  your  Farce  was  not  right  methinks 
at  the  end. 

Pun.     Why  how,  pray  ? 

Cut.  Why  there  should  ha'  been  a  Beating,  a  lusty  Cudgeling 
to  make  it  come  oS  smartly  with  a  twang  at  the  tail. 

ff^or.  Say  you  so  ?  h'  as  got  a  set  of  danmable  brawny 
Servingmen. 

Cut.     At  least  yohn  Pudding  here  should  ha'  been  basted. 

ff^9r.  A  curse  upon  him,  he  sav'd  himself  like  a  Rat  behind 
the  Hangings. 

Tnnrn.  J.     O  LuciOj  how  shall  I  beg  thy  pardon 
For  my  unjust  suspitions  of  thy  Virtue  ? 
Can  you  forgive  a  very  Repentant  sinner? 
Will  a  whole  life  of  Penitence  absolve  me  ? 

Trum.  s.  'Tis  enough,  good  noble  Colonel,  I  'm  satisfi'd  ; 
Come,  Dici^  I  see  'twas  Heaven's  will,  and  she 's  a  very  worthy 
virtuous  Gentlewoman ;  I  'm  old  and  testy,  but  'tis  quickly 
over;   my  blessing  upon  you  both. 

Cut.  Why  so,  all 's  well  of  all  sides  then  ;  let  me  see,  here 's 
a  brave  Coupling  day,  onely  poor  ff^orm  must  lead  a  Monkish 
Ufe  oft. 

Aur.  I  '1  have  a  Wife  for  him  too,  if  you  wiU,  fine  Mrs.  Jane 
within ;  [aside.]  I  'le  undertake  for  her,  I  ha'  set  her  a  gog  to 
day  for  a  husband,  the  first  comer  has  her  sure. 

fyor.  I,  but  what  Portion  has  she,  Mrs.  Puny?  for  we 
Captains  o'  the  King's  side  ha'  no  need  o'  Wives  with  nothing. 

j/ur.  Why  Lozenges,  and  Half-moons,  and  a  pair  of  Silver- 
lac'd  Shoes  ;  but  that  Tropes  lost  to  you  ;  well,  we  '1  see  among 
us  what  may  be  done  for  her. 

jfoU.  Come,  let 's  go  in  to  Supper ;  there  never  was  such  a 
day  of  Intrigues  as  this  in  one  Family.  If  my  true  Brother 
had  come  in  at  last  too  after  his  being  five  years  dead,  'twould 
ha'  been  a  very  Play.  [Exeunt. 

FINIS. 


Y2  ^3a 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


EPILOGUE, 

Spoken  by 

CUTTER. 

[Without  his  Peruique. 

ME'thinis  a  Vision  bids  me  silence  treaty 
And  some  words  to  this  Congregation  speak^ 
So  great  and  pay  a  one  I  ne*er  did  meet 
At  the  Fifth  Monarch's  Court  in  Coleman-street* 
But  yet  I  wonder  much  not  to  espy  a 
Brother  in  all  this  Court  called  Zephaniah. 
Bless  me!   where  are  we?    What  may  this  place  bif 
For  I  begin  by  Vision  now  to  see 
That  this  is  a  meer  Theater ;    well  then^ 
If^t  be  ien  so  VI  Cutter  be  again* 

[Puts  on  hk  Peruique. 
Not  Cutter  the  pretended  Cavalier: 
For  to  confess  ingenuously  here 
To  you  who  always  of  that  Party  were^ 
I  never  was  of  any ;    up  and  down 
I  rowldy  a  very  Kakehell  of  this  Town, 
But  now  my  Follies  and  my  Faults  are  endedy 
My  Fortune  and  my  Mind  are  both  amended^ 
And  if  we  may  believe  one  who  has  faiPd  beforey 
Our  Author  says  He^l  mendj  that  isy  He* I  write  w  nwre. 


340 


CUTTER  OF  COLEMAN-STREET 


EPILOGUE. 

At  Court. 

XHe  Madness  of  your  People^  and  the  Rage^ 
Tw^ve  seen  too  long  ufm  the  Puhlique  Stagey 
time  at  last  (great  Sir)  *tis  tinu  to  see 
Their  Tragique  Follies  brought  to  Comedy, 
/Ttfwf  tlame  the  Lowness  of  our  Scene^ 
Wi  Imwhly  think  some  Persons  there  have  been 
On  the  JVorWs  Theatre  not  long  agOy 
Much  more  too  Highy  than  here  they  are  too  Low, 
And  well  we  know  that  Comedy  of  oldy 
Did  her  Plebeian  rank  with  so  much  Honour  holdy 
That  it  appeared  not  then  too  Base  or  Lighty 
For  the  Great  Scipio's  Conquering  hand  to  Write. 
How  iroy  if  such  mean  Persons  seem  too  rudoy 
fFhen  into  Royal  presence  they  intrudcy 
Tet  we  shall  hope  a  pardon  to  receive 
From  youy  a  Prince  so  praxis* d  to  forgive ; 
A  PrtncOy  who  with  th*  applause  of  Ear[f]h  and  Heaveny 
The  rudemss  of  the  Vulgar  has  rorgiven, 

FINIS. 


341 


DISCOURSE 

By  way  of 

VISION, 

Concerning  the  Government  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 


IT  was  the  Funeral  day  of  the  late  man  who  made  himself 
to  be  called  Prote£four,  And  though  I  bore  but  little 
ztlt&\oi\y  either  to  the  memory  of  him,  or  to  the  trouble  and 
folly  of  all  publick  Pageantry,  yet  I  was  forced  by  the  im- 
portunity of  my  company  to  go  along  with  them,  and  be  a 
Spectator  of  that  solemnity,  the  expectation  of  which  had  been 
so  great,  that  it  was  said  to  have  brought  some  very  curious 
persons  (and  no  doubt  singular  Virtuoso's)  as  far  as  from  the 
Mount  in  Cornwall^  and  from  the  Orcades,  I  found  there  had 
been  much  more  cost  bestowed  than  either  the  dead  man,  or 
indeed  Death  it  self  could  deserve.  There  was  a  mighty  train 
of  black  assistants,  among  which  too  divers  Princes  in  the 
persons  of  their  Ambassadors  (being  infinitelv  afflided  for  the 
loss  of  their  Brother)  were  pleased  to  attena;  the  Herse  was 
Magnificent,  the  Idol  Crowned,  and  (not  to  mention  all  other 
Ceremonies  which  are  practised  at  Royal  interments,  and 
therefore  by  no  means  could  be  omitted  here)  the  vast 
multitude  of  Spectators  made  up,  as  it  uses  to  do,  no  small 
part  of  the  Speftacle  it  self.  But  yet  I  know  not  how,  the 
whole  was  so  managed,  that,  methoughts,  it  somewhat  repre- 
sented the  life  of  him  for  whom  it  was  made ;  Much  noise, 
much  tumult,  much  expence,  much  magnificence,  much  vain- 
glory; briefly,  a  great  show,  and  yet  after  all  this,  but  an 
ill  sight.     At  last,  (for  it  seemed  long  to  me,  and  like  hit  short 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

Reign  too,  ve^  tedious)  the  whole  Scene  past  by,  and  I  retired 
back  to  my  Chamber,  weary,  and  I  think  more  melancholy 
than  any  of  the  Mourners.  Where  I  began  to  refleft  on  the 
whole  life  of  this  Prodigious  Man,  and  sometimes  I  was  filled 
with  horror  and  detestation  of  his  actions,  and  sometimes  I 
inclined  a  little  to  reverence  and  admiration  of  his  courage, 
conduct  and  success ;  till  by  these  different  motions  and  agita- 
tions of  mind,  rocked,  as  it  were,  a  sleep,  I  fell  at  last  into  this 
Vision,  or  if  you  please  to  call  it  but  a  Dream,  I  shall  not  take 
it  ill,  because  the  Father  of  Poets  tells  us.  Even  Dreams  too 
are  firom  God. 

But  sure  it  was  no  Dream ;  for  I  was  suddenlv  transported 
afar  off  (whether  in  the  body,  or  out  of  the  body,  like  St.  Paul, 
I  know  not)  and  found  my  self  on  the  top  of  that  famous  Hill 
in  the  Island  Mona^  which  has  the  prospe6l  of  three  Great, 
and  Not-long-since  most  happy  Kingdoms.  As  soon  as  ever  I 
lookt  on  them,  the  Not-long-since  strook  upon  my  Memory, 
and  called  forth  the  sad  representation  of  all  the  oins,  and  all 
the  Miseries  that  had  overwhelmed  them  these  twenty  years. 
And  I  wept  bitterly  for  two  or  three  hours,  and  when  my 
present  stock  of  moisture  was  all  wasted,  I  fell  a  sighing  for 
an  hour  more,  and  as  soon  as  I  recovered  from  my  passion  the 
use  of  speech  and  reason,  I  broke  forth,  as  I  remember  (looking 
upon  England)  into  this  complaint. 

I. 

Ah,  happy  Isle,  how  art  thou  chang'd  and  curst. 
Since  I  was  born,  and  knew  thee  first ! 

When  Peace,  which  had  forsook  the  World  around, 

(Frighted  with  noise,  and  the  shrill  Trumpets  sound) 
Thee  for  a  private  place  of  rest. 
And  a  secure  retirement  chose 
Wherein  to  build  her  Halcyon  Nest; 

No  wind  durst  stir  abroad  the  Air  to  discompose. 

2. 

When  all  the  riches  of  the  Globe  beside 

Flow*d  in  to  Thee  with  every  Tide; 
When  all  that  Nature  did  thy  Soil  deny. 
The  Growth  was  of  thy  fruitfidl  Industry, 

1A\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

When  all  the  proud  and  dreadful]  Sea, 
And  all  his  Tributary-streams, 
A  constant  Tribute  paid  to  Thee. 
When  all  the  liquid  World  was  one  extended  Thames. 

3- 

When  Plenty  in  each  Village  did  appear, 
And  jBounty  was  it's  Steward  there; 

When  Gold  walkt  free  about  in  open  view. 

Ere  it  one  Conquering  parties  Prisoner  grew; 
When  the  Religion  of  our  State 
Had  Face  and  Substance  with  her  Voice, 
Ere  she  by  'er  foolish  Loves  of  late, 

Like  Eccho  (once  a  Nymph)  turn'd  onely  into  Noise. 

4- 

When  Men  to  Men  respeft  and  friendship  bore, 
And  God  with  Reverence  did  adore; 

When  upon  Earth  no  Kingdom  could  have  shown 

A  happier  Monarch  to  us  than  our  own, 
And  yet  his  Subje6ls  by  him  were 
(Which  is  a  Truth  will  hardly  be 
Receiv'd  by  any  vulgar  Ear, 

A  secret  known  to  few)  made  happiV  ev'n  than  He. 

5. 

Thou  doest  a  Chaosy  and  Confusion  now, 

A  Bahe/y  and  a  Bedlam  grow, 
And  like  a  Frantick  person  thou  doest  tear 
The  Ornaments  and  Cloaths  which  thou  shouldst  wear. 

And  cut  thy  Limbs;   and  if  we  see 

(Just  as  thy  Barbarous  Britons  did) 

Thy  Body  with  Hypocrisie 
Painted  all  o're,  thou  think'st.  Thy  naked  shame  is  hid. 

6. 

The  Nations,  which  envied  thee  erewhile, 
Now  laugh  (too  little  'tis  to  smile) 
They  laugh,  and  would  have  pitty'd  thee  (alas!) 
But  that  thy  Faults  all  Pity  do  surpass. 


344 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 

Art  thou  the  Country  which  didst  hate, 
And  mock  the  French  Inconstancy? 
And  have  we,  have  we  seen  of  late 
Less  change  of  Habits  there,  than  Governments  in  Thee  ? 

7- 

Unhappy  Isle!   No  ship  of  thine  at  Sea, 

Was  ever  tost  and  torn  like  thee. 
Tliy  naked  Hulk  loose  on  the  Waves  does  beat, 
The  Rocks  and  Banks  around  her  ruin  threat; 

What  did  thy  foolish  Pilots  ail, 

To  lay  the  Compass  quite  aside? 

Without  a  Law  or  Rule  to  sail, 
And  rather  take  the  winds,  then  Heavens  to  be  their  Guide  ? 

8. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet,  yet,  we  humbly  crave. 
This  floating  Isle  from  shipwrack  save; 

And  though  to  wash  that  Bloud  which  does  it  stain. 

It  well  deserves  to  sink  into  the  Main; 
Yet  for  the  Royal  Martyr's  prayer 
(The  Royal  Martyr  pray's  we  know) 
This  guilty,  perishing  Vessel  spare ; 

Hear  but  his  Soul  above,  and  not  his  bloud  below. 

I  think,  I  should  have  gone  on,  but  that  I  was  interrupted 
by  a  strange  and  terrible  Apparition,  for  there  appeared  to  me 
(arising  out  of  the  earth,  as  I  conceived)  the  figure  of  a  man 
taller  than  a  Gyant,  or  indeed,  than  the  shadow  of  any  Gyant 
in  the  evening.  His  body  was  naked,  but  that  nakedness 
adom'd,  or  rather  deform 'd  all  over,  with  several  figures,  after 
the  manner  of  the  antient  Britons^  painted  upon  it:  and  I 
perceived  that  most  of  them  were  the  representation  of  the  late 
battels  in  our  civil  Wars,  and  (if  I  be  not  much  mistaken)  it 
was  the  battle  of  Naseby  that  was  drawn  upon  his  Breast.  His 
Eyes  were  like  burning  Brass,  and  there  were  three  Crowns  of 
the  same  metal  (as  I  guest)  and  that  lookt  as  red-hot  too,  upon 
his  head.  He  held  in  his  right  hand  a  Sword  that  was  yet 
bloody,  and  never  the  less  the  Motto  of  it  was  Pax  quaritur 
belby  and  in  his  left  hand  a  thick  Book,  upon  the  back  of 

34S 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

which  was  written  in  Letters  of  Gold,  A&Sy  Ordinances^ 
Protestations,  Covenants,  Engagements,  Declarations,  Remon- 
strances, &c.  Though  this  suddain,  imusual,  and  dreadful 
objedt  might  have  quelled  a  greater  courage  than  mine,  yet  so 
it  pleased  God  (for  there  is  nothing  bolder  then  a  man  in  a 
Vision)  that  I  was  not  at  all  daunted,  but  askt  him  resolutely 
and  briefly.  What  art  thou  ?  And  he  said,  I  am  called  The 
North-west  Principality,  His  Highness,  the  Protestor  of  the 
Common-wealth  of  Englandy  Scotland  and  Inland^  and  the 
Dominions  belonging  thereunto,  for  I  am  that  Angell,  to 
whom  the  Almighty  has  committed  the  Government  of  those 
three  Kingdoms  which  thou  seest  from  this  place.  And  I 
answered  and  said,  If  it  be  so,  Sir,  it  seems  to  me  that  for 
almost  these  twenty  years  past,  your  highness  has  been  absent 
from  your  charge  :  for  not  only  if  any  Angel,  but  if  any  wise 
and  honest  M[a]n  had  since  that  time  been  our  Govemour,  we 
should  not  have  wandred  thus  long  in  these  laborious  and 
endless  Labyrinths  of  confusion,  but  either  not  have  entered  at 
all  into  them,  or  at  least  have  returned  back  ere  we  had 
absolutely  lost  our  way ;  but  in  stead  of  your  Highness,  we 
have  had  since  such  a  Protestor  as  was  his  Predecessor  Richard 
the  Third  to  the  King  his  Nephew ;  for  he  presently  slew  the 
Common-wealth,  which  he  pretended  to  proteft,  and  set  up- 
himself  in  the  place  of  it:  a  little  less  guilty  indeed  in  one 
respedt,  because  the  other  slew  an  Innocent,  [and]  this  Man 
did  but  murder  a  Murderer.  Such  a  Protedtor  we  have  had 
as  we  would  have  been  glad  to  have  changed  for  any  Enemy, 
and  rather  received  a  constant  Turk,  than  this  every  monetns 
Apostate ;  such  a  Protedor  as  Man  is  to  his  Flocks,  which  he 
sheers,  and  sells,  or  devours  himself;  and  I  would  b\n  know, 
what  the  Wolf,  which  he  protects  him  from,  could  do  more. 
Such  a  Protedlor — and  as  I  was  proceeding,  me-thoughts,  his 
Highness  began  to  put  on  a  displeased  and  threatnine  counte- 
nance, as  men  use  to  do  when  their  dearest  Friends  nappen  to 
be  traduced  in  their  company,  which  gave  me  the  first  rise  of 
jealousy  against  him,  for  I  did  not  believe  that  Cromwel  among 
all  his  forein  Correspondences  had  ever  held  any  with  Angels. 
However,  I  was  not  hardned  enough  yet  to  venture  a  quarrel 
with  him  then  \  and  therefore  (as  if  I  had  spoken  to  the 
Protedtor  himself  in  White-hall)  I  desired  him  that  his  Highness 

346 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

nuld  please  to  pardon  me,  if  I  had  unwittingly  spolccn  any 
thing  to  the  disparagement  of  a  person,  whose  relations  to  his 
Highness  1  had  not  the  honour  to  Itnow.  At  which  he  told 
me,  that  he  had  no  other  concernment  for  his  late  Highness^ 
than  as  he  took  him  to  be  the  greatest  man  that  ever  was  of  the 
Ensllsir  Nation,  if  not  (said  he)  of  the  whole  World,  which 
gives  me  a  just  title  to  the  defence  of  his  reputation,  since  I 
now  account  my  self,  as  it  were  a  naturalized  Eng/ish  Angel, 
by  having  had  so  long  the  management  of  the  affairs  of  that 
Country,  And  pray  Countryman,  (said  he,  very  kindly  and 
very  flatteringly)  for  I  would  not  have  you  fall  into  the  general 
errouf  of  the  World,  that  detests  and  decryes  so  extraordinary  a 
Virtue,  what  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a  person  of 
mean  birth,  no  fortune,  no  eminent  qualities  of  Body,  which 
have  sometimes,  or  of  Mind,  which  have  often  raised  men  to 
the  highest  dignities,  should  have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and 
the  happiness  to  succeed  in  so  improbable  a  design,  as  the 
destruction  of  one  of  the  most  antient,  and  most  solidly  founded 
Monarchies  upon  the  Earth:  that  he  should  have  the  power  or 
boldness  to  put  his  Prince  and  Master  to  an  open  and  infamous 
death?  to  banish  that  numerous,  aiid  strongly-allied  Family? 
to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages  of  a  Parliament;  to 
trample  upon  them  too  as  he  plea^d,  and  spurn  them  out  of 
dores  when  he  grew  weary  of  them  ;  to  raise  up  a  new  and 
un-heard  of  Monster  out  of  their  A<;hes ;  to  stifle  that  in  the 
infancy,  and  set  up  himself  above  all  things  that  ever  were 


very  i 

called  Sovereign  in  England-  to  oppress  all  his  Enemies  by 
Armes,  and  all  his  Friends  afterwards  by  Artifice  ;  to  serve  ul 
parties  patiently  for  a  while,  and  to  command  them  vi^oriously 
at  last ;  to  over-run  each  corner  of  the  three  Nations,  and 
overcome  with  equal  facility  both  the  riches  of  the  South,  and 
the  poverty  of  the  North  ;  to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all 
forein  Princes,  and  adopted  a  Brother  to  the  gods  of  the  earth ; 
to  call  together  Parliaments  with  a  word  of  his  Pen,  and  scatter 
them  again  with  the  Breath  of  his  Mouth  j  to  be  humbly  and 
daily  petitioned  chat  he  would  please  to  be  hired  at  the  rate  of 
two  millions  a  year,  to  be  the  Master  of  those  who  had  hired 
him  before  to  be  their  Servant  ;  to  have  the  Estates  and  Lives 
^f  three  Kingdomes  as  much  at  his  disposal,  as  was  the  little 
:  of  his  Father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in  the 

^-^7 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

spending  of  them ;  and  lastly  (for  there  is  no  end  of  all  the 
particulars  of  his  glory)  to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to 
his  Posterity  ;  to  die  with  peace  at  home,  and  triumph  abroad; 
to  be  buried  among  Kings,  and  with  more  than  R^al  solemnity; 
and  to  leave  a  name  behind  him,  not  to  be  extinguisht,  but  with 
the  whole  World,  which  as  it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises^  so 
might  have  been  too  for  his  Conquests,  if  the  short  line  of  his 
Humane  Life  could  have  been  stretcht  out  to  the  extent  of  his 
immortal  designs  ? 

By  this  speech  I  began  to  understand  perfefily  well  what 
kind  of  Angel  his  pretended  Highness  was,  and  having  fortified 
my  self  privately  with  a  short  mental  Prayer,  and  with  the  sign 
of  the  Cross  (not  out  of  any  superstition  to  the  sign,  but  is  a 
recognition  of  my  Baptism  in  Christ)  I  grew  a  little  bddcr, 
and  replyed  in  this  manner;  I  should  not  venture  to  oppose 
what  you  are  pleased  to  say  in  commendation  of  the  late  great, 
and  (I  confess)  extraordinary  person,  but  that  I  remember 
Christ  forbids  us  to  give  assent  to  any  other  doctrine  but  what 
himself  has  taught  us,  even  though  it  should  be  delivered  by  an 
Angel ;  and  if  such  you  be,  Sir,  it  may  be  you  have  spoken  all 
this  rather  to  try  than  to  tempt  my  frailty :  For  sure  I  am,  that 
we  must  renounce  or  forget  sill  the  Laws  of  the  New  and  Old 
Testament,  and  those  which  are  the  foundation  of  both,  even 
the  Laws  of  Moral  and  Natural  Honesty,  if  we  approve  of  the 
actions  of  that  man  whom  I  suppose  you  commend  by  Irony* 
There  would  be  no  end  to  instance  in  the  particulars  of  all  his 
wickedness ;  but  to  sum  up  a  part  of  it  briefly ;  What  can  be 
more  extraordinarily  wicked,  than  for  a  person,  such  as  your 
self,  qualifie  him  rightly,  to  endeavour  not  only  to  exalt  himself 
above,  but  to  trample  upon  all  his  equals  and  betters?  to 
pretend  freedom  for  all  men,  and  under  the  help  of  that 
pretence  to  make  all  men  his  servants  ?  to  take  Armes  against 
Taxes  of  scarce  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  to 
raise  them  himself  to  above  two  Millions  ?  to  quarrel  for  the 
losse  of  three  or  four  Eares,  and  strike  off  three  or  four  hundred 
Heads  ?  to  fight  against  an  imaginary  suspition  of  I  know  not 
what,  two  thousand  Guards  to  be  fetcht  for  the  King,  I  know 
not  from  whence,  and  to  keep  up  for  himself  no  less  than  fourty 
thousand  ?  to  pretend  the  defence  of  Parliaments,  and  violently 
to  dissolve  all  even  of  his  own  calling,  and  almost  choosing  ?  to 

348 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

rundertalce  the  Reformation  of  Religion,  to  rob  it  even  to  the 
very  skin,  and  then  to  expose  it  naked  to  the  rage  of  a!l  Se£lB 
and  Heresies  ?  to  set  up  Counsels  of  Rapine,  and  Courts  of 
Murder  >  to  light  against  the  King  under  a  commission  for 
him ;  to  take  him  forceably  out  of  the  hands  of  those  for 
whom  he  had  conquered  him ;  to  draw  him  into  his  Net,  with 
protestations  and  vows  of  6de!ity,  and  when  he  had  caught  him 
in  it,  to  butcher  him,  with  as  little  shame,  as  Conscience,  or 
Humanity,  in  the  open  face  of  the  whole  World  ?  to  receive  a 
Commission  for  King  and  Parliament,  to  murder  {as  I  said)  the 
one,  and  destroy  no  less  impudently  the  other  ?  to  fight  against 
Monarchy  when  he  declared  for  it,  and  declare  against  it  when 
be  contrived  for  it  in  his  own  person  i  to  abase  perfideously  and 
supplant  ingratefiilly  his  own  General  first,  and  afterwards  most 
of  those  Officers,  who  with  the  loss  of  their  Honour,  and  hazard 
of  their  Souls,  had  lifted  him  up  to  the  top  of  his  unreasonable 
ambitions?  to  break  his  laith  with  all  Enemies,  and  with  all 
friends  equally?  and  to  make  no  less  frequent  use  of  the  most 
solemn  Perjuries  than  the  looser  sort  of  People  do  of  customary 
Oaths  ?  to  usurp  three  Kingdoms  without  any  shadow  of  the 
least  pretensions,  and  to  govern  them  as  unjustly  as  he  gat 
them  ?  to  set  himself  up  as  an  Idol  <wh)ch  we  know  as  St.  Paul 
aayes,  in  it  self  is  nothing)  and  make  the  very  streets  of  Lcndan^ 
like  the  Valley  of  Hinniin,  by  burning  the  bowels  of  men  as 
a  sacrifice  to  his  Molech-ihip}  to  seek  to  entail  this  usurpation 
upon  his  Posterity,  and  with  it  an  endless  War  upon  the 
Nation  ?  And  lastly,  by  the  severest  Judgment  of  Almighty 
God,  to  dye  hardned,  and  mad,  and  unrepentant,  with  the 
curses  of  the  present  Age,  and  the  detestation  of  all  to  succeed. 

Though  I  had  much  more  to  say  (for  the  Life  of  man  is  so 
short,  that  it  allows  not  time  enough  to  speak  against  a  Tyrant) 
yet  because  I  had  a  mind  to  hear  how  my  strange  Adversary 
would  behave  himself  upon  this  subjeft,  and  to  give  even  the 
Devil  (as  they  say)  his  right,  and  fair  play  in  a  Disputation,  I 
ttopt  here,  and  expefted  {not  without  the  frailty  of  a  little  fear) 
that  he  should  have  broke  into  a  violent  passion  in  behalf  of  his 
Favourite  ;  but  he  on  the  contrary  very  calmly,  and  with  the 
Dove-like  innoccncy  of  a  Serpent  that  was  not  yet  warm'd 
enough  to  sting,  thus  replyed  to  me  ; 

It  is  not  so  much  out  of  my  affection  to  that  person  whom 

3+9 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

we  discourse  of  (whose  greatness  is  too  solid  to  be  shaken  hj 
the  breath  of  any  Oratory)  as  for  your  own  sake  (honest 
Countryman)  whom  I  conceive  to  err,  rather  by  mistake  than 
out  of  malice,  that  I  shall  endeavour  to  reform  your  uncharitable 
and  unjust  opinion.  And  in  the  first  place  I  must  needs  put 
you  in  mind  of  a  Sentence  of  the  most  antient  of  the  Heathen 
Divines,  that  you  men  are  acquainted  withaU, 

ovx  [oaiff]  KTafUvouTiv  hr    dpSpcunv  eirxj^aa/frBiUy 

Tis  wicked  with  insulting  feet  to  tread 
Upon  the  Monuments  of  the  Dead. 

And  the  intention  of  the  reproof  there,  is  no  less  proper  for 
this  Subjedt ;  for  it  is  spoken  to  a  person  who  was  proud  and 
insolent  against  those  dead  men  to  whom  he  had  been  humble 
and  obedient  whilst  they  lived.  Your  Highness  may  jdease 
(said  I)  to  add  the  Verse  that  follows,  as  no  less  proper  for  this 
Subjcdt, 

Whom  God's  just  doom  and  their  own  sins  have  sent 
Already  to  their  punishment. 

But  I  take  this  to  be  the  rule  in  the  case,  that  when  we  fix 
any  infamy  upon  deceased  persons,  it  should  not  be  done  out  of 
hatred  to  the  Dead,  but  out  of  love  and  charity  to  the  Living, 
that  the  curses  which  onely  remain  in  mens  thoughts,  and  dare 
not  come  forth  against  Tyrants  (because  they  are  Tyrants) 
whilst  they  are  so,  may  at  least  be  for  ever  setled  and  engraven 
upon  their  Memories,  to  deterr  all  others  from  the  like  wicked- 
ness, which  else  in  the  time  of  their  foolish  prosperity,  the 
flattery  of  their  own  hearts,  and  of  other  mens  Tongues,  would 
not  suffer  them  to  perceive.  Ambition  is  so  subtil  a  Tempter, 
and  the  corruption  of  humane  nature  so  susceptible  of  the 
temptation,  that  a  man  can  hardly  resist  it,  be  he  never  so 
much  forewarned  of  the  evil  consequences,  much  less  if  he  find 
not  onely  the  concurrence  of  the  present,  but  the  approbation 
too  of  following  ages,  which  have  the  liberty  to  judge  more 
freely.  The  mischief  of  Tyranny  is  too  great,  even  in  the 
shortest  time  that  it  can  continue ;  it  is  endless  and  insupport- 
able, if  the  Example  be  to  reign  too,  and  if  a  Lambert  must  be 
invited  to  follow  the  steps  of  a  Cromwell  as  well  by  the  voice 

350 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 

of  Honour,  as  by  the  sight  of  power  and  riches.  Though  it 
may  seem  to  some  fiuitastically,  yet  was  it  wisely  done  of  the 
SyracusianSy  to  implead  with  the  forms  of  their  ordinary  justice, 
to  condemn,  and  destroy  even  the  Statues  of  all  their  Tyrants ; 
If  it  were  possible  to  cut  them  out  of  all  History,  and  to 
extinguish  their  very  names,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  ought  to 
be  done;  but  since  they  have  left  behind  them  too  deep 
wounds  to  be  ever  closed  up  without  a  Scar,  at  least  let  us  set 
such  a  Mark  upon  their  memory,  that  men  of  the  same  wicked 
inclinations  may  be  no  less  affrighted  with  their  lasting 
Ignominy,  than  enticed  by  their  momentary  glories.  And  that 
your  Highness  may  perceive  that  I  speak  not  all  this  out  of  any 
private  animosity  against  the  person  of  the  late  ProUSfoTy  I 
assure  you  upon  my  faith,  that  I  bear  no  more  hatred  to  his 
name,  than  I  do  to  that  of  Marius  or  Sylloy  who  never  did  me 
or  any  friend  of  mine  the  least  injury;  and  with  that  trans- 
portea  by  a  holy  fury,  I  fell  into  this  sudden  rapture. 


I. 

Curst  be  the  Man  (what  do  I  wish  ?  as  though 

The  wretch  already  were  not  so; 
But  curst  on  let  him  be)  who  thinks  it  brave 

And  great,  his  Countrey  to  enslave. 

Who  seeks  to  overpoise  alone 

The  Balance  of  a  Nation  ; 

Against  the  whole  but  naked  State, 
Who  in  his  own  light  Scale  makes  up  with  Arms  the  weight. 


2. 

Who  of  his  Nation  loves  to  be  the  first. 
Though  at  the  rate  of  being  worst. 

Who  would  be  rather  a  great  Monster,  than 
A  well-proportion*d  Man. 
The  Son  of  Earth  with  hundred  hands 
Upon  his  three-pil'd  Mountain  stands. 
Till  Thunder  strikes  him  from  the  sky; 

The  Son  of  Earth  again  in  hi$  Earths  womb  does  lie. 

351 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

3- 

What  Bloudy  Confusion,  Ruine,  to  obtain 
A  short  and  miserable  Reign  ? 

In  what  obh'que  and  humble  creeping  wise 
Does  the  mischievous  Serpent  rise? 
But  even  his  forked  Tongue  strikes  dead. 
When  h'as  rear'd  up  his  wicked  Head, 
He  murders  with  his  mortal  frown, 

A  Basilisk  he  grows  if  once  he  get  a  Crown. 

4- 

But  no  Guards  can  oppose  assaulting  EUtrs, 
Or  undermining  Tears. 

No  more  than  doors,  or  close-drawn  Curtains  keep 
The  swarming  Dreams  out  when  we  sleep. 
That  bloudy  Conscience  too  of  his 
(For,  oh,  a  Rebel  Red-Coat  'tis) 
Does  here  his  early  Hell  begin. 

He  sees  his  Slaves  without,  his  Tyrant  feels  within. 

5. 

Let,  Gracious  God,  let  never  more  thine  hand 

Lift  up  this  rod  against  our  Land. 
A  Tyrant  is  a  Rod  and  Serpent  too, 

And  brings  worse  Plagues  than  Egypt  knew. 

What  Rivers  stain'd  with  blood  have  been? 

What  Storm  and  Hail-shot  have  we  seen  ? 

What  Sores  deform'd  the  Ulcerous  State  ? 
What  darkness  to  be  felt  has  buried  us  of  late  ? 

6. 

How  has  it  snatcht  our  Flocks  and  Herds  away  ? 
And  made  even  of  our  Sons  a  prey  ? 

What  croaking  Sedts  and  Vermin  has  it  sent 
The  restless  Nation  to  torment  ? 
What  greedy  Troups,  what  armed  power 
Of  Flies  and  Locusts  to  devour 
The  Land  which  every  where  thcjr  fill  ? 

Nor  flie  they.  Lord,  away;   no,  they  devour  it  still. 

352t 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 


Come  the  eleventh  Pi^uc,  rather  than  this  should  be; 

Come  sinlc  us  rather  in  the  Sea. 
Come  rather  Pestilence  and  reap  us  down  ; 

Come  Gods  sword  rather  than  our  own. 

Let  rather  Raman  come  again. 

Or  Saxon,  Norman,  or  the  Dane, 

In  all  the  bonds  we  ever  bore. 
We  griev'd,  we  sigh'd,  we  wept  j  wc  never  blusht  before, 


If  by  our  sins  the  Divine  Justice  be 
Call'd  to  this  last  extremity, 

Let  some  denouncing  Janai  firet  be  sent, 
To  try  if  England  can    repent. 
Methinks  at  least  some  Prodigy, 
Some  dreadful  Comet  from  on  high. 
Should  terribly  forewarn  the  Earth, 

As  of  good  Princes  Deaths,  so  of  a  Tyrants  birth. 


Here  the  spirit  of  Vi 


e  begin 


nga 


little  to  fait,  I  stopt,  and 


his  Highness  smiling,  said,  I  was  glad  to  see  you  engaged  in  the 
Enclosures  of  Mteter,  for  if  you  hat!  staid  in  the  open  plain  of 
Declaiming  against  the  word  Tyrant,  I  must  have  had  patience 
for  half  a  dozen  hours,  till  you  had  tired  your  self  as  well  as 
me.  But  pray,  Countrey-man,  (o  avoid  this  sciomachy,  or 
imaginary  Combat  with  words,  let  me  know  sir,  what  you 
mean  by  the  name  of  Tyrant,  for  I  remember  that  among 
your  ancient  Authors,  not  only  all  Kings,  but  even  yup'tltr 
himself  (your  Juvans  Pater)  is  so  termed,  and  perhaps  as  it 
was  used  formerly  In  a  good  sence,  so  we  shall  find  it  upon 
better  consideration  to  be  still  a  good  thing  for  the  benefit  and 
peace  of  mankind,  at  least  it  will  appear  whether  your  inter- 
pretation of  it  may  be  justly  applied  to  the  person  who  is  now 
the  subjefl  of  our  Discourse.  I  call  him  (said  I)  a  Tyrant, 
who  either  intrudes  himself  forcibly  into  the  Government  of 
his  fellow  Citizens  without  any  legal  Authority  over  them,  or 
ffho  having  a  just  Title  to  the  Government  of  a  people,  abuses 
' ;  to  the  destruflion,  or  tormenting  of  them.  So  that  all 
■Tyrants  axe  at  the  same  time  Usurpers,  either  of  the  whole  or 
^  35a 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

at  least  of  a  part  of  that  power  which  they  assume  to  themselves, 
and  no  less  are  they  to  be  accounted  Rebels,  since  no  man  can 
usurp  Authority  over  others,  but  by  rebelling  against  them  who 
had  it  before,  or  at  least  against  those  Laws  which  were  his 
Superiors ;  and  in  all  these  sences  no  History  can  afibrd  us  a 
more  evident  example  of  Tyranny,  or  more  out  of  all  possibility 
of  excuse,  or  palliation,  than  that  of  the  person  whom  you  are 
pleased  to  defend,  whether  we  consider  his  reiterated  rebellions 
against  all  his  Superiors,  or  his  usurpation  of  the  Supream 
power  to  himself,  or  his  Tyranny  in  the  exercise  of  it ;  and  if 
lawful  Princes  have  been  esteemed  Tyrants  by  not  containing 
themselves  within  the  bounds  of  those  Laws  which  have  been 
left  them  as  the  sphere  of  their  Authority  by  their  fore-fathers, 
what  shall  we  say  of  that  man,  who  having  by  right  no  power 
at  all  in  this  Nation,  could  not  content  himself  with  that  which 
had  satisfied  the  most  ambitious  of  our  Princes  ?  nay,  not  with 
those  vastly  extended  limits  of  Soverainty,  which  he  (disdaining 
all  that  had  been  prescribed  and  observed  before)  was  pleased 
(but  of  great  modesty)  to  set  to  himself?  not  abstaining  from 
Rebellion  and  Usurpation  even  against  his  own  Laws  as  well 
as  those  of  the  Nation  ? 

Hold  friend  (said  his  Highness,  pulling  me  by  my  Arm)  for 
I  see  your  zeal  is  transporting  you  again ;  whether  the  Protcftor 
were  a  Tyrant  in  the  exorbitant  exercise  of  his  power  we  shall 
see  anon,  it  is  requisite  to  examine  first  whether  he  were  so  in 
the  usurpation  of  it.  And  I  say,  that  not  only  He,  but  no  man 
else  ever  was,  or  can  be  so ;  and  that  for  these  reasons.  First, 
Because  all  power  belongs  only  to  God,  who  is  the  source  and 
fountain  of  it,  as  Kings  are  of  all  Honours  in  their  Dominions. 
Princes  are  but  his  Viceroys  in  the  little  Provinces  of  this 
World,  and  to  some  he  gives  their  places  for  a  few  years,  to 
some  for  their  lives,  and  to  others  (upon  ends  or  deserts  best 
known  to  himself,  or  meerly  for  his  undisputable  good  pleasure) 
he  bestows  as  it  were  Leases  upon  them,  and  their  posterity, 
for  such  a  date  of  time  as  is  prefixt  in  that  Patent  of  their 
Destiny,  which  is  not  legible  to  you  men  below.  Neither  is  it 
more  unlawful  for  Oliver  to  succeed  Charles  in  the  Kingdom 
of  England^  when  God  so  disposes  of  it,  than  it  had  been  for 
him  to  have  succeeded  the  Lord  Strafford  in  the  Lieutenancjr 
of  Inland^  if  he  had  been  appointed  to  it  by  the  King  then 

354 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 

'feigning.  Men  arc  in  both  the  cases  obliged  to  obey  him 
whom  they  see  aflually  invested  with  the  Authority  by  that 
Sovereign  from  whom  he  ought  to  derive  it,  without  disputing 
or  examining  the  causes,  either  of  the  removal  of  the  one,  or 
the  preferment  of  the  other.  Secondly,  because  all  power  is 
attained  either  by  the  Eleftion  and  Consent  of  the  people,  and 
that  takes  away  your  objeftion  of  forcible  intrusion  ;  or  else  by 
a  Conquest  of  them,  and  that  gives  such  a  legal  Authority  as 
you  mention  to  be  wanting  in  the  usurpation  of  a  Tyrant;  so 
that  either  this  Title  is  right,  and  then  there  are  no  Usurpers, 
or  else  it  is  a  wrong  one,  and  then  there  are  none  else  but 
Usurpers,  if  you  examine  the  Original  pretences  of  the  Princes 
of  the  World.  Thirdly,  (which  quitting  the  dispute  in  general, 
is  a  particular  justification  of  his  Highness)  the  Government  of 
England  was  totally  broken  and  dissolved,  and  extinguisht  by 
the  confusions  of  a  Civil  War,  so  that  his  Highness  could  not 
be  accused  to  have  possest  himself  violently  of  the  anticnt 
building  of  the  Common- wealth,  but  to  have  prudently  and 
peaceably  built  up  a  new  one  out  of  the  ruines  and  ashes  of 
the  former ;  and  he  who  after  a  deplorable  sbipwrack  can  with 
extraordinary  Industry  gather  together  the  disperst  and  broken 
planks  and  pieces  of  it,  and  with  no  less  wonderful  Art  and 
Felicity  so  rejoyn  them  as  to  make  a  new  Vessel  more  tight 
and  beautiful  than  the  old  one,  deserves,  no  doubt,  to  have  the 
command  of  her  {even  as  his  Highness  had)  by  the  desire  of 
the  Seamen  and  Passengers  themselves.  And  do  but  consider 
Lastly  (for  I  omit  a  multitude  of  weighty  things  that  might 
be  spoken  upon  this  noble  argument)  do  but  consider  seriously 
and  impartially  with  your  self,  what  admirable  parts  of  wit  and 
prudence,  what  indefatigable  diligence  and  invincible  courage 
must  of  necessity  have  concurred  in  the  person  of  that  man 
who  from  so  contemptible  beginnings  (as  I  observed  before) 
and  through  so  many  thousand  difficulties,  was  able  not  only 
to  make  himself  the  greatest  and  most  absolute  Monarch  of 
this  Nation,  but  to  add  to  it  the  entire  Conquest  of  Ireland  and 
Scotland  (which  the  whole  force  of  the  World  joyned  with  the 
Reman  virtue  could  never  attain  to)  and  to  Crown  all  this  with 
illustrious  and  Heroical  undertakings,  and  successes  upon  all 
our  foreign  Enemies ;  do  but  (I  say  again)  consider  this,  and 
you  will  confess,  that  his  prodigious  merits  were  a  better  Title 
Z2  1fi,% 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

to  Imperial  Dignity,  than  the  bloud  of  an  hundred  Royal 
Progenitors;  and  will  rather  lament  that  he  lived  not  to 
overcome  more  Nations,  than  envy  him  the  Conquest  and 
Dominion  of  these.  Who  ever  you  are  (said  I,  my  indignation 
making  me  somewhat  bolder)  your  discourse  (methmks)  becomes 
as  little  the  person  of  a  Tutelar  Angel,  as  Cromweb  actions  did 
that  of  a  Protedlor.  It  is  upon  these  Principles,  that  all  the 
great  Crimes  of  the  world  have  been  committed,  and  most 
particularly  those  which  I  have  had  the  misfortune  to  see  in 
my  own  time,  and  in  my  own  Countrey.  If  these  be  to  be 
allowed,  we  must  break  up  humane  society,  retire  into  the 
Woods,  and  equally  there  stand  upon  our  Guards  against  our 
Brethren  Mankind,  and  our  Rebels  the  Wild  Beasts.  For  if 
there  can  be  no  Usurpation  upon  the  rights  of  a  whole  Nation, 
there  can  be  none  most  certainly  upon  those  of  a  private 
person ;  and  if  the  robbers  of  Countreys  be  Gods  Vice-gerents, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  the  Thieves  and  Bandito*s,  and  Murderers, 
are  his  under  Officers.  It  is  true  which  you  say,  that  God  is 
the  [source]  and  fountain  of  all  power,  and  it  is  no  less  true  that 
he  is  the  Creator  of  Serpents  as  well  as  Angels ;  nor  does  his 
goodness  fail  of  its  ends  even  in  the  malice  of  his  own  Creatures. 
What  power  he  suffers  the  Devil  to  exercise  in  this  world,  is 
too  apparent  by  our  daily  experience,  and  by  nothing  more 
than  the  late  monstrous  iniquities  which  you  dispute  for,  and 
patronize  in  England ;  but  would  you  inferr  from  thence,  that 
the  power  of  the  Devil  is  a  just  and  lawful  one,  and  that  all 
men  ought,  as  well  as  most  men  do,  obey  him  ?  God  is  the 
fountain  of  all  powers;  but  some  flow  from  the  right  hand 
(as  it  were)  of  his  Goodness,  and  others  from  the  left  hand  of 
his  Justice;  and  the  World,  like  an  Island  between  these  two 
Rivers,  is  sometimes  refresh  [t]  and  nourisht  by  the  one,  and 
sometimes  overrun  and  ruined  by  the  other ;  and  (to  continue 
a  little  farther  the  Allegory)  we  are  never  overwhelmed  with 
the  latter,  till  either  by  our  malice  or  negligence  we  have  stopt 
and  damm'd  up  the  former.  But  to  come  a  little  closer  to  your 
argument,  or  rather  the  Image  of  an  Argument,  your  similitude; 
If  Cromwell  had  come  to  command  in  Ireland  in  the  place  of 
the  late  Lord  Strafford^  I  should  have  yielded  obedience,  not 
for  the  equipage,  and  the  strength,  and  the  guards  which  he 
brought  with  him,  but  for  the  Commission  which  he  should 

356 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

6ret  have  shewed  me  from  our  common  Sovereign  that  sent 
him  ;  and  if  he  could  have  done  that  from  God  Almighty, 
I  would  have  obeyed  him  too  in  England  j  but  that  he  was  ki 
far  from  being  able  to  do,  that  on  the  contrary,  I  read  nothing 
but  commands,  and  even  publick  Proclamations  from  God 
Almighty,  not  to  admit  him.  Your  second  Argument  is,  that 
he  had  the  same  right  for  his  Authority,  that  is  the  foundation 
of  all  others  even  the  right  of  Conquest.  Are  we  then  so 
unhappy  as  to  be  conquered  by  the  person,  whom  we  hired  at 
a  daily  rate,  like  a  labourer,  to  conquer  others  for  us  ^  did  we 
furnish  him  with  Arms,  onely  to  draw  and  try  upon  our 
Enemies  (as  we,  it  seems,  falsely  thought  them)  and  keep  them 
for  ever  sheath'd  in  the  bowels  of  his  Friends?  did  wc  fight  for 
Liberty  against  our  Prince,  that  we  might  become  Slaves  to  our 
Servant  ?  this  is  such  an  impudent  pretence,  as  neither  He  nor 
any  of  his  flatterers  for  him  had  ever  the  face  to  mention. 
Though  it  can  hardly  be  spoken  or  thought  of  without  passion, 
yet  I  shall,  if  you  please,  argue  it  more  calmly  than  the  case 
deserves.  The  right  certainly  of  Conquest  can  only  be  exercised 
upon  those  against  whom  the  War  is  declared,  and  the  Viflory 
obtained.  So  that  no  whole  Nation  can  be  said  to  be  conquered 
but  by  foreign  force.  In  all  Civil  wars  men  arc  so  far  from 
stating  the  quarrel  against  their  Countrey,  that  they  do  it  only 
against  a  person  or  party  which  they  really  believe,  or  at  least 
pretend  to  be  pernicious  to  it,  neither  can  there  be  any  just 
cause  for  the  destruiftion  of  a  part  of  the  body,  but  when  it  is 
done  for  the  preservation  and  safety  of  the  whole.  'Tis  our 
Countrey  that  raises  men  in  the  quarrel,  our  Countrey  that 
■  urns,  our  Countrey  that  pays  them,  our  Countrey  that 
BBthoriscs  the  undertaking,  and  by  that  distinguishes  it  from 
Kypine  and  murder  ;  Lastly,  'tis  our  Countrey  that  directs  and 
pCommands  the  Army,  and  is  indeed  their  General.  So  that  to 
say  in  Civil  Wars  that  the  prevailing  party  conquers  their 
Countrey,  is  to  say,  the  Countrey  conquers  it  self  And  if  the 
General  only  of  that  party  be  the  Conquerour,  the  Army  by 
which  he  is  made  so,  is  no  less  conquered  than  the  Army 
which  is  beaten,  and  have  as  little  reason  to  triumph  in  that 
Victory,  by  which  they  lose  both  their  Honour  and  Liberty. 
So  that  if  Cramwel  conquer'd  any  party,  it  was  only  that 
pinst  which  he  was  sent,  and  wJiat  that  was,  must  appear 

357 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

by  his  Commission.  It  was  (says  that)  against  a  company  of 
evil  Counsellors,  and  disafiedled  persons,  who  kept  the  King 
from  a  good  intelligence  and  conjundlion  with  his  People. 
It  was  not  then  against  the  People.  It  is  so  far  from  being 
so,  that  even  of  that  party  which  was  beaten,  the  Conquest 
did  not  belong  to  Cromwel  but  to  the  Parliament  which 
employed  him  in  their  Service,  or  rather  indeed  to  the  King 
and  Parliament,  for  whose  Service,  (if  there  had  been  any  fiuth 
in  mens  vows  and  protestations)  the  Wars  were  undertaken. 
Merciful  God  !  did  the  right  of  this  miserable  Conquest  remain 
then  in  His  Majesty,  and  didst  thou  suffer  him  to  be  destroyed 
with  more  barbarity  than  if  he  had  been  conquered  even  by 
Savages  and  Cannibals  i  was  it  for  King  and  Parliament  that 
we  fought,  and  has  it  fared  with  them  just  as  with  the  Army 
which  we  fought  against,  the  one  part  being  slain,  and  the 
other  fled  ?  It  appears  therefore  plainly,  that  Cromwel  was  not 
a  Conqueror,  but  a  Thief  and  Robber  of  the  Rights  of  the 
King  and  Parliament,  and  an  Usurper  upon  those^  of  the 
People.  I  do  not  here  deny  Conquest  to  be  sometimes  (though 
it  be  very  rarely)  a  true  title,  but  I  deny  this  to  be  a  true 
Conquest.  Sure  I  am,  that  the  race  of  our  Princes  came  not 
in  by  such  a  one.  One  Nation  may  conquer  another  some- 
times justly,  and  if  it  be  unjustly,  yet  still  it  is  a  true  Conquest, 
and  they  are  to  answer  for  the  injustice  only  to  God  Almighty 
(having  nothing  else  in  authority  above  them)  and  not  as 
particular  Rebels  to  their  Countrey,  which  is,  and  ought 
always  to  be  their  Superior  and  their  Lord.  If  perhaps  we 
find  Usurpation  in  stead  of  Conquest  in  the  Original  Titles 
of  some  Royal  Families  abroad  (as  no  doubt  there  have  been 
many  Usurpers  before  ours,  though  none  in  so  impudent  and 
execrable  a  manner)  all  I  can  say  for  them  is,  that  their  Title 
was  very  weak,  till  by  length  of  time,  and  the  death  of  all 
juster  pretenders,  it  became  to  be  the  true,  because  it  was  the 
onely  one.  Your  third  defence  of  his  Highness  (as  your 
Highness  pleases  to  call  him)  enters  in  most  seasonably  after 
his  pretence  of  Conquest,  for  then  a  man  may  say  any  thing. 
The  Government  was  broken  ;  Who  broke  it  ?  It  was  dis- 
solved ;  Who  dissolved  it  ?  It  was  extineuisht ;  Who  was  it 
but  Cromwell^  who  not  onely  put  out  the  Light,  but  cast  away 
even  the  very  snufF  of  it  ?     As  if  a  man  should  murder  a  whole 

358 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

Familjr,  and  then  possesse  himself  of  the  House,  because  'tis 
better  that  He,  than  that  onely  Rats  should  live  there.  Jesus 
God !  (said  I,  and  at  that  word  I  perceived  my  pretended  Angel 
to  give  a  start  and  trembled,  but  I  took  no  notice  of  it,  and 
went  on)  this  were  a  wicked  pretension  even  though  the  whole 
Family  were  destroyed,  but  the  Heirs  (blessed  be  God)  are  yet 
surviving,  and  likely  to  out-live  all  Heirs  of  their  dispossessors, 
besides  their  Inhmy.  Rode  Caper  vitem,  &c.  There  will  be 
yet  wine  enough  left  for  the  Sacrifice  of  those  wild  Beasts  that 
have  made  so  much  spoil  in  the  Vineyard.  But  did  Cromwell 
think,  like  Nero^  to  set  the  City  on  fire,  onely  that  he  might 
have  the  honour  of  being  founder  of  a  new  and  more  beautiful 
one?  He  could  not  have  such  a  shadow  of  Virtue  in  his 
wickedness;  he  meant  onely  to  rob  more  securely  and  more 
richly  in  midst  of  the  combustion ;  he  little  thought  then  that 
he  should  ever  have  been  able  to  make  himself  Master  of  the 
Palace,  as  well  as  plunder  the  Goods  of  the  Common-wealth. 
He  was  glad  to  see  the  publick  Vessel  (the  Sovereign  of  the 
Seas)  in  as  desperate  a  condition  as  his  own  little  Canon,  and 
thought  onely  with  some  scattered  planks  of  that  great  ship- 
wrack  to  make  a  better  Fisherboat  for  himself.  But  when 
he  saw  that  by  the  drowning  of  the  Master  (whom  he  himself 
treacherously  knockt  on  the  head  as  he  was  swimming  for  his 
life)  by  the  flight  and  dispersion  of  others,  and  cowardly 
patience  of  the  remaining  company,  that  all  was  abandoned  to 
his  pleasure,  with  the  old  Hulk  and  new  mis-shapen  and 
disagreeing  pieces  of  his  own,  he  made  up  with  much  adoe 
that  Piratical  Vessel  which  we  have  seen  him  command,  and 
which,  how  tight  indeed  it  was,  may  best  be  judged  by  it's 
perpetual  Leaking.  First  then  (much  more  wicked  than  those 
foolish  daughters  in  the  Fable,  who  cut  their  old  Father  into 
pieces,  in  hope  by  charms  and  witchcraft  to  make  him  young 
and  lusty  again)  this  man  endeavoured  to  destroy  the  Building, 
before  he  could  imagine  in  what  manner,  with  what  materials, 
by  what  workmen,  or  what  Architedl  it  was  to  be  rebuilt. 
Secondly,  if  he  had  dreamt  himself  to  be  able  to  revive  that 
body  which  he  had  killed,  yet  it  had  been  but  the  insupportable 
insolence  of  an  ignorant  Mountebanck ;  And  Thirdly  (which 
concerns  us  nearest)  that  very  new  thing  which  he  made  out 
of  the  ruines  of  the  old,  is  no  more  like  the  Original,  either  for 

3  59 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

beauty,  use,  or  duration,  than  an  artificial  Plant  raised  bv  the 
fire  of  a  Chymist  is  comparable  to  the  true  and  natural  one 
which  he  first  burnt,  that  out  of  the  ashes  of  it  he  might 
produce  an  imperfedl  similitude  of  his  own  making.  Your  last 
argument  is  such  (when  reduced  to  Syllogism)  that  the  Major 
Proposition  of  it  would  make  strange  work  in  the  World,  if  it 
were  received  for  truth ;  to  wit,  that  he  who  has  the  best  parts 
in  a  Nation,  has  the  right  of  being  King  over  it.  We  had 
enough  to  do  here  of  old  with  the  contention  between  two 
branches  of  the  same  Family,  what  would  become  of  us  when 
every  man  in  England  should  lay  his  claim  to  the  Government  ? 
and  truely  if  Cromwell  should  have  commenced  his  plea  when 
he  seems  to  have  begun  his  ambition,  there  were  few  persons 
besides  that  might  not  at  the  same  time  have  put  in  theirs  toa 
But  his  Deserts  I  suppose  you  will  date  from  the  same  terme 
that  I  do  his  great  Demerits,  that  is,  from  the  beginning  of  our 
late  calamities,  (for,  as  for  his  private  feults  before,  I  can  onely 
wish  (and  that  with  as  much  Charity  to  him  as  to  the  pubhck) 
that  he  had  continued  in  them  till  his  death,  rather  than 
changed  them  for  those  of  his  latter  dayes)  and  therefore  we 
must  begin  the  consideration  of  his  greatness  from  the  unlucky 
^ra  of  our  own  misfortunes,  which  puts  me  in  mind  of  what 
was  said  less  truely  of  Pompey  the  Great,  Nostra  Miseria 
Magnus  es.  But  because  the  general  ground  of  your  argu- 
mentation consists  in  this,  that  all  men  who  are  the  efFedters 
of  extraordinary  mutations  in  the  world,  must  needs  have 
extraordinary  forces  of  Nature  by  which  they  are  enabled  to 
turn  about,  as  they  please,  so  great  a  Wheel ;  I  shall  speak 
first  a  few  words  upon  this  universal  proposition,  which  seems 
so  reasonable,  and  is  so  popular,  before  I  descend  to  the 
particular  examination  of  the  eminences  of  that  person  which 
is  in  question. 

I  have  often  observed  (with  all  submission  and  resignation 
of  spirit  to  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  Eternal  Providence) 
that  when  the  fulness  and  maturity  of  time  is  come  that 
produces  the  great  confusions  and  changes  in  the  World,  it 
usually  pleases  God  to  make  it  appear  by  the  manner  of  them, 
that  they  are  not  the  efFefts  of  humane  force  or  policy,  but  of 
the  Divine  Justice  and  Predestination,  and  though  we  see  a 
Man,  like  that  which  we  call  Jack  of  the  Clock-house,  striking, 

360 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

as  it  were,  the  Hour  of  that  fulness  of  time,  yet  our  reason 
must  needs  be  convinced,  that  his  hand  is  moved  by  some 
secret,  and  to  us  who  stand  without,  invisible  diredlion.  And 
the  stream  of  the  Current  is  then  so  violent,  that  the  strongest 
men  in  the  World  cannot  draw  up  against  it,  and  none  are 
so  weak,  but  they  may  sail  down  with  it.  These  are  the 
Spring-Tides  of  publick  affairs  which  we  see  often  happen, 
but  seek  in  vain  to  discover  any  certain  causes, 

Omnia  Jluminis  ^*'-  ^^' 


3"  ^9' 

Ritu  ftruntury  nunc  medio  aheo 
Cum  pace  delabentis  Hetruscum 
In  mare^  nunc  lapides  adesos 

Stirpesque  raptas^  &  pecus  &  domos 
f^o/ventis  una^  non  sine  montium 
Clamore^  vicimtque  silvre^ 
Cum  fera  Diluvies  quietos 

Irritat  amneSj 

and  one  man  then,  by  malitiously  opening  all  the  Sluces  that 
he  can  come  at,  can  never  be  the  sole  Author  of  all  this 
(though  he  may  be  as  guilty  as  if  really  he  were,  by  intending 
and  imagining  to  be  so)  but  it  is  G<>d  that  breaks  up  the 
Flood-Gates  of  so  general  a  Deluge,  and  all  the  art  then  and 
industry  of  mankind  is  not  sufficient  to  raise  up  Dikes  and 
Ramparts  against  it.  In  such  a  time  it  was  as  this,  that  not 
aU  the  wisdom  and  power  of  the  Roman  Senate,  nor  the  wit 
and  eloquence  of  Cicero^  nor  the  Courage  and  Virtue  of  Brutus 
was  able  to  defend  their  Country  or  themselves  against  the 
unexperienced  rashness  of  a  beardless  Boy,  and  the  loose  rage 
of  a  voluptuous  Madman.  The  valour  and  prudent  Coimsels 
on  the  one  side  are  made  fruitless,  and  the  errours  and  cowardize 
on  the  other  ha[r]mless,  by  unexpefted  accidents.  The  one 
General  saves  his  life,  and  gains  the  whole  World,  by  a  very 
dream;  and  the  other  loses  both  at  once  by  a  little  mistake 
of  the  shortness  of  his  sight.  And  though  this  be  not  alwaies 
so,  for  we  see  that  in  the  translation  of  the  great  Monarchies 
from  one  to  another,  it  pleased  God  to  make  choice  of  the 
most  Eminent  men  in  Nature,  as  CyruSy  Alexander^  Scipio  and 
his  contemporaries,  for  his  chief  instruments  and  adtors  in  so 
admirable  a  work  (the  end  of  this  being  not  only  to  destroy 

361 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

or  punish  one  Nation,  which  may  be  done  by  the  worst  of 
mankind,  but  to  exalt  and  bless  another,  which  is  only  to  be 
efiedted  by  great  and  virtuous  persons)  yet  when  God  only 
intends  the  temporary  chastisement  of  a  people,  he  does  not 
raise  up  his  servant  Cyrus  (as  he  himself  is  pleased  to  call  him) 
or  an  Alexander  (who  had  as  many  virtues  to  do  good,  as  vices 
to  do  harm)  but  he  makes  the  MassanelloeSy  and  the  yohns  of 
Leyden  the  instruments  of  his  vengeance,  that  the  power  of 
the  Almighty  might  be  more  evident  by  the  weakness  of  the 
means  which  he  chooses  to  demonstrate  it.  He  did  not 
assemble  the  Serpents  and  the  Monsters  of  Afrique  to  corred 
the  pride  of  the  Egyptians^  but  called  for  his  Armies  of  Locusts 
out  of  /Ethiopia,  and  formed  new  ones  of  Vermine  out  of  the 
very  dust;  and  because  you  see  a  whole  Country  destroyed 
by  these,  will  you  argue  from  thence  they  must  needs  have 
had  both  the  craft  of  the  Foxes,  and  the  courage  of  Lions? 
It  is  easie  to  apply  this  general  observation  to  the  particular 
case  of  our  troubles  in  England,  and  that  they  seem  only  to 
be  meant  for  a  temporary  chastisement  of  our  sins,  and  not 
for  a  total  abolishment  of  the  old,  and  introdudlion  of  a  new 
Government,  appears  probabl[e]  to  me  from  these  considerations, 
as  far  as  we  may  be  bold  to  make  a  judgment  of  the  will  of 
God  in  future  events.  First,  because  he  has  suffered  nothing 
to  settle  or  take  root  in  the  place  of  that  which  hath  been  so 
unwisely  and  unjustly  removed,  that  none  of  these  untempered 
Mortars  can  hold  out  against  the  next  blast  of  Wind,  nor  any 
stone  stick  to  a  stone,  till  that  which  these  Foolish  Builden 
have  refused,  be  made  again  the  Head  of  the  Corner.  For 
when  the  indisposed  and  long  tormented  Commonwealth  has 
wearied  and  spent  it  self  almost  to  nothing  with  the  chargeable, 
various,  and  dangerous  experiments  of  several  Mountebanks, 
it  is  to  be  supposed,  it  will  have  the  wit  at  last  to  send  for  a 
true  Physician,  especially  when  it  sees  (which  is  the  second 
consideration)  most  evidently  (as  it  now  begins  to  do,  and  will 
do  every  day  more  and  more,  and  might  have  done  perfedly 
long  since)  that  no  usurpation  (under  what  name  or  pretext 
soever)  can  be  kept  up  without  open  force,  nor  force  without 
the  continuance  of  those  oppressions  upon  the  people,  which 
will  at  last  tire  out  their  patience,  though  it  be  great  even  to 
stupidity.     They  cannot  be  so  dull  (when  poverty  and  hunger 

362 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

b^ns  to  whet  their  understanding)  as  not  to  find  out  this  no 
extraordinary  mystery,  that  *tis  madness  in  a  Nation  to  pay 
three  Millions  a  year  for  the  maintaining  of  their  servitude 
under  Tyrants,  when  they  might  live  free  for  nothing  under 
their  Princes.  This,  I  say,  will  not  alwayes  ly  hid,  even  to  the 
slowest  capacities,  and  the  next  truth  they  will  discover  after- 
wards, is,  that  a  whole  people  can  never  have  the  will  without 
having  at  the  same  time  the  power  to  redeem  themselves. 
Thirdly,  it  does  not  look  (me-thinks)  as  if  God  had  forsaken 
the  family  of  that  man,  from  whom  he  has  raised  up  five 
Children,  of  as  Eminent  virtue,  and  all  other  commendable 
qualities,  as  ever  lived  perhaps  (for  so  many  together,  and  so 
young)  in  any  other  family  in  the  whole  world.  Especially, 
if  we  adde  hereto  this  consideration,  that  by  protecting  and 
preserving  some  of  them  already  through  as  great  danger[s]  as 
ever  were  past  with  safety,  either  by  Prince  or  private  person, 
he  has  given  them  already  (as  we  may  reasonably  hope  it  to  be 
meant)  a  promise  and  earnest  of  his  future  fevours.  And  lastly 
(to  return  closely  to  the  discourse  from  which  I  have  a  little 
digrest)  because  I  see  nothing  of  those  excellent  parts  of  nature, 
and  mixture  of  Merit  with  their  Vices  in  the  late  disturbers  of 
our  peace  and  happiness,  that  uses  to  be  found  in  the  persons 
of  those  who  are  born  for  the  ereftion  of  new  Empires.  And 
I  confess  I  finde  nothing  of  that  kind,  no  not  any  shadow 
(taking  away  the  false  light  of  some  prosperity)  in  the  man 
whom  you  extol  for  the  first  example  of  it.  And  certainly  all 
Virtues  being  rightly  devided  into  Moral  and  Intelledtual,  I 
know  not  how  we  can  better  judge  of  the  former  than  by 
mens  adtions,  or  of  the  latter  than  by  their  Writings  or 
Speeches.  As  for  these  latter  (which  are  least  in  merit,  or 
rather  which  are  only  the  instruments  of  mischief  where  the 
other  are  wanting)  I  think  you  can  hardly  pick  out  the  name 
of  a  man  who  ever  was  called  Great,  besides  him  we  are  now 
speaking  of,  who  never  left  the  memory  behinde  him  of  one 
wise  or  witty  Apothegm  even  amongst  his  Domestique  Servants 
or  greatest  Flatterers.  That  little  in  print  which  remains  upon 
a  sad  record  for  him,  is  such,  as  a  Satyre  against  him  would  not 
have  made  him  say,  for  fear  of  transgressing  too  much  the  rules 
of  Probability,  i  know  not  what  you  can  produce  for  the 
justification  of  his  parts  in  this  kind,  but  his  having  been  able 

363 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

to  deceive  so  many  particular  persons,  and  so  many  whole 
parties ;  which  if  you  please  to  take  notice  of  for  the  advantage 
of  his  Intelledtualsy  I  desire  you  to  allow  me  the  liberty  to  do 
so  too,  when  I  am  to  speak  of  his  Morals.  The  truth  of  the 
thing  is  this,  That  if  Craft  be  Wisdom,  and  Dissimulation  Wit, 
(assisted  both  and  improved  with  Hypocrisies  and  Perjuries)  I 
must  not  deny  him  to  have  been  singular  in  both ;  but  so  gross 
was  the  manner  in  which  he  made  use  of  them,  that  as 
wise-men  ought  not  to  have  believed  him  at  first,  so  no  man 
was  Fool  enough  to  believe  him  at  last ;  neither  did  any  man 
seem  to  do  it,  but  those  who  thought  they  gained  as  much 
by  that  dissembling,  as  he  did  by  his.  His  very  actings  of 
Godliness  grew  at  last  as  ridiculous,  as  if  a  Player,  by  putting 
on  a  Gown,  should  think  he  represented  excellently  a  Woman, 
though  his  Beard  at  the  same  time  were  seen  by  aU  the 
Spectators.  If  you  ask  me  why  they  did  not  hiss,  and  explode 
him  off  the  stage,  I  can  only  answer,  that  they  durst  not  do  so, 
because  the  Aitors  and  the  Door-keepers  were  too  strong  for 
the  Company.  I  must  confess  that  by  these  arts  (how  grosly 
soever  managed,  as  by  Hypocritical  praying,  and  silly  preaching, 
by  unmanly  tears  and  whinings,  by  falshoods  and  perjuries 
even  Diabolical)  he  had  at  first  the  good  fortune  (as  men  call 
it,  that  is  the  ill-Fortune)  to  attain  his  ends ;  but  it  was  because 
his  ends  were  so  unreasonable,  that  no  humane  reason  could 
foresee  them  ;  which  made  them  who  had  to  do  with  him 
believe  that  he  was  rather  a  well  meaning  and  deluded  Bigot, 
than  a  crafty  and  malicious  Impostor,  that  these  arts  were 
helpt  by  an  Indefatigable  industry  (as  you  term  it)  I  am  so 
far  from  doubting,  that  I  intended  to  object  that  diligence  as 
the  worst  of  his  Crimes.  It  makes  me  almost  mad  when  I 
hear  a  man  commended  for  his  diligence  in  wickedness.  If 
I  were  his  Son,  I  should  wish  to  God  he  had  been  a  more  lazy 
person,  and  that  we  might  have  found  him  sleeping  at  the 
hours  when  other  men  are  ordinarily  waking,  rather  than 
waking  for  those  ends  of  his  when  other  men  were  ordinarily 
asleep ;  how  diligent  the  wicked  are  the  Scripture  often  tell[s]  us; 
Their  feet  run  to  evill,  and  they  make  haste  to  shed  innocent 
bloud,  Isa,  59.  7.  He  travels  with  iniquity,  P$aL  7.  14.  He 
deviseth  mischief  upon  his  bed,  PsaL  34.  4.  They  search  out 
iniquity,  they  accomplish  a  diligent  search,  PsaL  64.  6.  and  in 

364 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

a  muJlitude  of  other  places.  And  would  it  not  seem  ridiculous 
to  praise  a  Wolf  for  his  watchfulness,  and  for  his  indefatigable 
industry  in  ranging  all  night  about  the  Country,  whilst  the 
sheep,  and  perhaps  the  shepherd,  and  perhaps  the  very  Du^ 
too  are  all  asleep? 

The  Chartreux  wants  the  warning  of  a  Bell 

To  call  him  to  the  duties  of  his  Cell ; 

There  needs  no  noise  at  all  t'awakcn  sin, 

Th*  Adulterer  and  the  Thief  his  Larum  has  within. 
And  if  the  diligence  of  wicked  persons  be  so  much  to  be 
blamed,  as  that  it  is  only  an  Emphasis  and  Exaggeration  of 
their  wickedness,  I  see  not  how  their  courage  can  avoid  the 
same  censure.  If  the  undertaking  bold,  and  vast,  and  un- 
reasonable designs  can  deserve  that  honourable  name,  I  am 
sure  Faux  and  his  fellow  Gun-powder  Fiends  will  have  cause 
to  pretend,  though  not  an  equal,  yet  at  least  the  next  place  of 
Honour,  neither  can  1  doubt  but  if  they  too  had  succeeded, 
they  would  have  found  their  Appiaudci^  and  Admirers.  It 
was  bold  unquestionably  tor  a  man  in  defiance  of  all  Humane 
and  Divine  Laws  (and  with  so  little  probability  of  a  long 
-impunity)  so  publiquely  and  so  outragiously  to  murder  his 
i  It  was  bold  with  so  much  insolence  and  affront  to 
md  disperse  all  the  chief  Partners  of  his  guilt,  and 
^Creators  of  his  power ;  It  was  bold  to  violate  so  opcnJy  and  so 
scornfully  all  Afls  and  Constitutions  of  a  Nation,  and  after- 
wards even  of  his  own  making  ;  it  was  bold  to  Assume  the 
Authority  of  calling,  and  bolder  yet  of  breaking  so  many 
Parliaments;  it  was  bold  to  trample  upon  the  patience  of  his 
own,  and  provoke  that  of  all  neighbouring  Countrcys ;  It  was 
bold,  I  say,  above  all  boldnesses,  to  Usurp  this  Tyranny  to 
himself,  and  impudent  above  all  impudences  to  endeavour  to 
transmit  it  to  his  posterity.  But  all  this  boldness  is  so  IW 
from  being  a  sign  of  manly  courage,  (which  dares  not  transgress 
the  rules  of  any  other  Virtue)  that  it  is  only  a  Demonstration 
of  Brutish  Madness  or  Diabolical  Possession.  In  both  which 
last  cases  there  uses  frequent  examples  to  appear  of  such 
extraordinary  force  as  may  justly  seem   more   wonderful   and 

t astonishing  than  the  anions  of  CrBmwe!,  neither  is  it  stranger 
to  believe  that  a  whole  Nation  should  not  be  able  to  govern 
36s 


and 
^—impi 

BCrea 
I       scon 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Him  and  a  Mad  Army,  than  that  five  or  six  Men  should  not 
be  strong  enough  to  bind  a  distracted  Girl.  There  is  no  man 
ever  succeeds  in  one  wickedness  but  it  gives  him  the  boldness 
to  attempt  a  greater;  'Twas  boldly  done  of  Nero  to  kill  his 
Mother,  and  all  the  chief  Nobility  of  the  Empire ;  'twas  boldly 
done  to  set  the  Metropolis  of  the  Whole  world  on  fire,  and 
undauntedly  play  upon  his  Harp  whilst  he  saw  it  burning; 
I  could  reckon  up  five  hundred  boldnesses  of  that  great  person 
(for  why  should  not  He  too  be  called  so  ?)  who  wanted  when 
he  was  to  die,  that  courage  which  could  hardly  have  failed  any 
Woman  in  the  like  necessity.  It  would  look  (I  must  confess) 
like  Envy  or  too  much  partiality  if  I  should  say  that  personal 
kind  of  courage  had  been  deficient  in  the  man  we  spKcak  of; 
I  am  confident  it  was  not,  and  yet  I  may  venture  I  think  to 
affirm,  that  no  man  ever  bore  the  honour  of  so  many  victories, 
at  the  rate  of  fewer  wounds  or  dangers  of  his  own  body,  and 
though  his  valour  might  perhaps  have  given  him  a  just  pre- 
tension to  one  of  the  first  charges  in  an  Army,  it  could  not 
certainly  be  a  sufficient  ground  for  a  Title  to  the  conunand  of 
three  Nations.  What  then  shall  we  say  ?  that  he  did  all  this 
by  Witchcraft  ?  He  did  so  indeed  in  a  great  measure  by  a  sin 
that  is  called  like  it  in  the  Scriptures.  But  truely  and  un- 
passionately  reflecting  upon  the  advantages  of  his  person  which 
might  be  thought  to  have  produced  those  of  his  Fortune,  I  can 
espy  no  other  but  extraordinary  Diligence  and  infinite  Dis- 
simulation ;  and  believe  he  was  exalted  above  his  Nation, 
partly  by  his  own  Faults,  but  chiefly  for  Ours.  We  have 
brought  him  thus  briefly  (not  through  all  his  Labyrinths)  to 
the  Supreme  Usurpt  Authority,  and  because  you  say  it  was 
great  pity  he  did  not  live  to  command  more  Kingdoms,  be 
pleased  to  let  me  represent  to  you  in  a  few  words,  how  well 
I  conceive  he  governed  these.  And  we  will  divide  the  con- 
sideration into  that  of  his  foreign  and  domestique  Adtions. 
The  first  of  his  foreign  was  a  peace  with  our  Brethren  of 
Holland  (who  were  the  first  of  our  neighbours  that  God 
chastised  for  having  had  so  great  a  hand  in  the  encouraging 
and  abetting  our  troubles  at  home)  who  would  not  imagine  at 
first  glympse  that  this  had  been  the  most  virtuous  and  laudable 
deed  that  his  whole  life  could  have  made  any  parade  of?  but 
no  man  can  look  upon  all  the  circumstances  without  perceiving, 

366 


I 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

that  it  was  purely  the  sale  and  sacrificing  of  the  greatest 
advantages  that  this  Couiitrey  could  ever  hope,  and  was  ready 
to  reap  from  a  foreign  War,  to  the  private  Interests  of  his 
Covctousness  and  Ambition,  and  the  security  of  his  new  and 
unsetled  Usurpation.  No  sooner  is  that  danger  past,  but  this 
Beams  Padficus  is  kindling  a  fire  in  the  Northern  World,  and 
carrying  a  War  two  thousand  miles  off  Westwards.  Two 
millions  a  year  (besides  all  the  Vales  of  his  Protectorship)  is 
as  little  capable  to  suffice  now  either  his  Avarice  or  Prodigality, 
as  the  two  hundred  pounds  were  that  he  was  born  to.  He 
must  have  his  prey  of  the  whole  Ititiirs  both  by  Sea  and  Land, 
this  great  Aligator.  To  satisfie  our  Anti-SeUmen  (who  has 
made  Silver  almost  as  rare  as  Gold,  and  Gold  as  precious  stones 
in  his  new  Jenisaltm)  we  must  go,  ten  thousand  of  his  slaves, 
to  fetch  him  riches  from  his  fantastical  Ophir.  And  because 
his  flatterers  brag  of  him  as  the  most  fortunate  Prince  (the 
fauitui  as  well  as  Sy/la  of  our  Nation,  whom  God  never 
forsook  in  any  of  his  undertakings)  I  desire  them  to  consider, 
how  since  the  English  name  was  ever  heard  of,  it  never 
received  so  great  and  so  infamous  a  blow  as  under  the 
imprudent  conduft  of  this  unlucky  Faustus ;  and  herein  let 
me  admire  the  justice  of  God  in  this  circumstance,  that  they 
who  had  enslaved  their  Countrey  (though  a  great  Army,  which 
I  wish  may  be  observed  by  ours  with  trembling)  should  be  so 
shamefully  defeated  by  the  hands  of  forty  slaves.  It  was  very 
ridiculous  to  sec  how  prettily  they  endeavoured  to  hide  this 
ignominy  under  the  great  name  of  the  Conquest  of  'Jamaica^ 
as  if  a  defeated  Army  should  have  the  impudence  to  brag 
afterwards  of  the  Viftory,  because,  though  they  had  fled  out 
of  the  Field  of  Battel,  yet  they  quartered  that  night  in  a 
Village  of  the  Enemies.  The  War  with  Spain  was  a  necessary 
consequence  of  this  folly,  and  how  much  we  have  gotten  by  it, 
let  the  Custom-house  and  Exchange  inform  you  ;  and  if  he 
please  to  boast  of  the  taking  a  part  of  the  Silver  Fleet,  (which 
indeed  no  body  else  but  he,  who  was  the  sole  gainer,  has  cause 
to  do)  at  least,  let  him  give  leave  to  the  rest  of  the  Nation 
(which  is  the  only  loser)  to  complain  of  the  loss  of  twelve 
hundred  of  her  ships.  But  because  it  may  here  perhaps  be 
answered,  that  his  successes  nearer  home  have  cxtingutsht  the 
disgrace  of  so   remote    miscarriages,  and   that  Dunkiri  ought 

367 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

more  to  be  remembred  for  his  glory,  than  St.  Dmmnp  for  his 
disadvantage ;  I  must  confess,  as  to  the  honour  of  the  English 
courage,  that  they  were  not  wanting  upon  that  occasion 
(excepting  only  the  feult  of  serving  at  least  indireftly  against 
their  Master)  to  the  upholding  of  the  renown  of  their  warlike 
Ancestors.  But  for  his  particular  share  of  it,  who  sate  still  at 
home,  and  exposed  them  so  frankly  abroad,  I  can  only  say,  that 
for  less  money  than  he  in  the  short  time  of  his  Reign  exacted 
from  his  fellow  Subjects,  some  of  our  former  Princes  (with  the 
daily  hazard  of  their  own  persons)  have  added  to  the  Dominion 
of  England  not  only  one  Town,  but  even  a  greater  Kingdom 
than  it  self.  And  this  being  all  considerable  as  concerning  his 
enterprises  abroad,  let  us  examine  in  the  next  place,  how  much 
we  owe  him  for  his  Justice  and  good  Government  at  home. 
And  first  he  found  the  Common-wealth  (as  they  then  called  it) 
in  a  ready  stock  of  about  800™  pounds,  he  left  the  Common- 
wealth (as  he  had  the  impudent  raillery  still  to  call  it)  some 
two  Millions  and  an  half  in  debt.  He  found  our  Trade  very 
much  decayed  indeed,  in  comparison  of  the  golden  times  of  our 
late  Princes ;  he  left  it  as  much  aeain  more  decay'd  than  he 
found  it ;  and  yet  not  only  no  Prince  in  Englandy  but  no 
Tyrant  in  the  World  ever  sought  out  more  base  or  in&mous 
means  to  raise  moneys.  I  shall  only  instance  in  one  that  he 
put  in  pra6tice,  and  another  that  he  attempted,  but  was 
frighted  from  the  execution  (even  He)  by  the  infamy  of  it. 
That  which  he  put  in  practice  was  Decimation ;  which  was 
the  most  impudent  breach  of  all  publick  Faith  that  the  whole 
Nation  had  given,  and  all  private  capitulations  which  himself 
had  made,  as  the  Nations  General  and  Servant,  that  can  be 
found  out  (I  believe)  in  all  History,  from  any  of  the  most 
barbarous  Generals  of  the  most  barbarous  People.  Which 
because  it  has  been  most  excellently  and  most  largely  laid  open 
by  a  whole  Book  written  upon  that  Subje£l,  I  shall  only  desire 
you  here  to  remember  the  thing  in  general,  and  to  be  pleased 
to  look  upon  that  Author  when  you  would  recoiled  all  the 
particulars  and  circumstances  of  the  iniquity.  The  other  design 
of  raising  a  present  sum  of  money,  which  he  violently  persu^ 
but  durst  not  put  in  execution,  was  by  the  calling  in  and 
establishment  of  the  Jews  at  London ;  from  which  he  was 
rebuted  by  the  universal  outcry  of  the  Divines,  and  even  of 

368 


t 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

the  Citizens  loo,  who  took  it  ill  that  a  considerable  number  at 
least  amongst  themselves  were  not  thought  ynvs  enough  by 
their  own  Hirod.  And  for  this  design,  they  say,  he  invented 
(Oh  Antichrist !  Uov^pav  and  o  Iloyijpw  !)  to  sell  St.  Pauh  to 
them  for  a  Synagogue,  if  their  purses  and  devotions  could  have 
rcacht  to  the  purchase.  And  this  indeed  if  he  had  done  only 
to  reward  that  Nation  which  had  given  the  first  noble  example 
of  crucifying  their  King,  it  might  have  had  some  appearance  of 
Gratitude,  but  he  did  it  only  for  love  of  their  Mammon;  and 
would  have  sold  afterwards  for  as  much  more  St.  Peltri  (even 
at  his  own  ff^eitmlniUr)  to  the  Turks  for  a  Mmquho.  Such 
was  his  extraordinary  Piety  to  God,  that  he  desired  he  might 
be  worshipped  in  all  manners,  excepting  only  that  heathenish 
way  of  the  Common- Prayer  Book.  But  what  do  I  speak  of 
his  wicked  inventions  for  getting  money  ?  when  every  penny 
that  for  almost  five  years  he  took  every  day  from  every  man 
'living  in  England,  Scotland  and  Iretandy  was  as  much  Robbery 
IS  if  it  had  been  taken  by  a  Thief  upon  the  High-ways.  Was 
it  not  so?  or  can  any  man  think  that  Cromvjrll  with  the 
assistance  of  his  Forces  and  Mosse-Troopers,  had  more  right 
to  the  command  of  all  mens  purses,  than  he  might  have  had 
to  any  ones  whom  he  had  met  and  been  loo  strong  for  upon  a 
Road  ?  and  yet  when  this  came  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Coney,  to  be 
disputed  by  a  legal  tryal,  he  (which  was  the  highest  a£t  of 
Tyranny  that  ever  was  seen  in  England)  not  only  discouraged 
and  threatned,  but  violently  imprisoned  the  Council  of  the 
PlaintitF;  that  is,  he  shut  up  the  Law  it  self  close  Prisoner, 
that  no  man  might  have  relief  from,  or  access  to  it.  And  it 
ought  to  be  remembred,  thai  this  was  done  by  those  men,  who 
a  few  years  before  had  so  bitterly  decried,  and  openly  opposed 
the  Kings  regular  and  formal  way  of  proceeding  in  the  trial  of 
a  little  Ship-money.  But  though  w«  lost  the  benefit  of  our  old 
Courts  of  Justice,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  set  up  new  ones  j 
and  such  they  were,  that  as  no  virtuous  Prince  before  would, 
so  no  ill  one  durst  erett.  What,  have  we  lived  so  many 
hundred  years  under  such  a  form  of  Justice  as  has  been  able 
regularly  to  punish  all  men  that  offended  against  it,  and  is  it  so 
deficient  just  now,  that  we  must  seek  out  new  ways  how  to 
proceed  against  offenders.'  The  reason  which  can  only  be 
given  in  nature  for  a  necessity  of  this,  is,  because  those  (hin^ 
c.  11.  AA  369 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

are   now   made   Crimes,   which   were   never  esteemed  so  in 
former  ages ;    and  there  must  needs  be  a  new  Court  set  up 
to  punish  that,  which  all  the  old  ones  were  bound  to  protect 
and  reward.     But  I  am  so  far  from  declaiming  (as  you  call  it) 
against  these  wickednesses  (which  if  I  should  undertake  to  do, 
I  should  never  get  to  the  Peroration)  that  you  see  I  only  give  a 
hint  of  some  few,  and  pass  over  the  rest  as  things  that  are  too 
many  to  be  numbred,  and  must  onely  be  weighed   in  gross. 
Let  any  man  shew  me  (for  though  I  pretend  not  to  much 
reading,  I  will  defie  him  in  all  History)  let  any  man  shew  me 
(I  say)  an  Example  of  any  Nation  in  the  World  (though  much 
greater  than  ours)  where  there  have  in  the  space  of  four  years 
been  made  so  many  Prisoners  only  out  of  the  endless  jealousies 
of  one  Tyrants  guilty  imagination.     I  grant  you  that  Marius 
and  Sylloy  and  the  accursed  Triumvirate  after  them,  put  more 
People  to  death,  but  the  reason  I  think  partly  was,  because  in 
those  times  that  had  a  mixture  of  some  honour  with   their 
madness,  they  thought  it  a  more  civil  revenge  against  a  Roman 
to  take  away  his  life,  than   to  take  away  his  Liberty.     But 
truly  in  the  point  of  murder  too,  we  have  little  reason  to  think 
that  our  late  Tyranny  has  been  deficient  to  the  examples  that 
have  ever  been  set  it  in  other  Countreys.     Our  Judges  and  our 
Courts  of  Justice  have  not  been  idle ;  And  to  omit  the  whole 
reign  of  our  late  King  (till  the  beginning  of  the  War)  in  which 
no  drop  of  blood  was  ever  drawn  but  from  two  or  three  Ears, 
I  think  the  longest  time  of  our  worst  Princes  scarce  saw  many 
more  Executions  than  the  short  one  of  our  blest  Reformer. 
And  we  saw,  and  smelt  in  our  open  streets,  (as  I  markt  to  you 
at  first)  the  broyling  of  humane  bowels  as  a  burnt  Ofiering  of 
a  sweet  Savour  to  our  Idol ;  but  all  murdering,  and  all  torturing 
(though   after   the   subtilest   invention  of  his  Predecessors  of 
Sicilie)  is  more  Humane  and  more  Supportable,  than  his  selling 
of  Christians,  Englishmen,  Gentlemen  ;    his  selling  of  them 
(oh  monstrous  !  oh  incredible  I)  to  be  slaves  in  America,     If  his 
whole  life  could  be  reproacht  with  no  other  aSion,  yet  this 
alone  would  weigh  down  all  the  multiplicity  of  Crimes  in  any 
of  our  Tyrants ;   and  I  dare  only  touch,  without  stopping  or 
insisting  upon  so  insolent  and  so  execrable  a  cruelty,  for  fear 
of  falling  into  so  violent  (though  a  just)  Passion,  as  would  make 
me   exceed  that  temper  and  moderation  which  I  resolve  to 

370 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 

in  this  Discourse  with  you.  These  are  great  calamit: 
but  even  these  are  not  the  most  insupportable  that  we  have 
endured ;  for  so  it  is,  that  the  scorn  and  mockery  and  insultings 
of  an  Enemy,  are  more  painful  than  the  deepest  wounds  of  his 
serious  fury.  This  Man  was  wanton  and  merry  (unwittiiy 
and  ungracefully  merry)  with  our  sufTerings ;  He  loved  to  say 
and  do  seaccless  and  fantastical  things,  onely  to  shew  his  power 
of  doing  or  saying  any  thing.  It  would  ill  befit  mine,  ot  any 
civil  Mouth,  to  repeat  those  words  which  he  spolce  concerning 
the  most  sacred  of  our  EngJish  Laws,  the  Petition  of  Right, 
and  Magna  Charta.  To  day  you  should  sec  him  ranting  so 
wildly,  [hat  no  body  durst  come  near  him,  the  morrow  flinging 
of  cushions,  and  playing  at  Snow-balls  with  his  Servants.  This 
moneth  he  assembles  a  Parliament,  and  professes  himself  with 
humble  tears  to  be  onely  their  Servant  and  their  Minister;  the 
next  moneth  he  swears  By  the  Living  God,  that  he  will  turn 
them  out  of  dorcs,  and  he  does  so,  in  his  princely  way  of 
threatning,  bidding  them.  Turn  the  buckles  of  their  girdles 
behind  them.  The  representative  of  a  whole,  nay  of  three 
whole  Nations,  was  in  his  esteem  so  contemptible  a  meeting, 
that  he  thought  the  affronting  and  expelling  of  them  to  be  a 
thing  of  so  little  consequence,  as  not  to  deserve  that  he  should 
advise  with  any  mortal  man  about  it.  What  shall  we  call 
this?  Boldness,  ot  Bruitishness?  Rashness,  or  Phrensic?  there 
is  no  name  can  come  up  to  it,  and  therefore  we  must  leave  it 
without  one.  Now  a  Parliament  must  be  chosen  in  the  new 
manner,  next  time  in  the  old  form,  but  all  cashiered  still  after 
the  newest  mode.  Now  he  will  govern  by  Major  Generals, 
now  by  One  House,  now  by  Another  House,  now  by  No 
House  ;  now  the  freak  takes  him,  and  he  makes  seventy  Peers 
of  the  Land  at  one  clap  {Exlempare,  and  itani  pedt  in  une)  and 
to  manifest  the  absolute  power  of  the  Potter,  he  chooses  not 
onely  the  worst  Clay  he  could  find,  but  picks  up  even  the  Durt 
and  Mire,  to  form  out  of  it  his  Vessels  of  Honour.  It  was  said 
antiently  of  Fortune,  that  when  she  had  a  mind  to  be  merry 
and  to  divert  her  self,  she  was  wont  to  raise  up  such  kind  of 
people  to  the  highest  Dignities.  This  Son  of  fortune,  CramwtU 
(who  was  himself  one  of  the  primest  of  her  Jests)  found  out 
the  true  haut-goust  of  this  pleasure,  and  rejoyced  in  the  ex- 
nivagance  of  his  wayes  as  the  fullest  demonstration  of  his 
AA  2  37  i 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 

uncontroulable  Soverainty.     Good  God !  What  have  we  seen  ? 
and  what  have  we  sufFer'd  ?  What  do  all  these  adtions  signifie  ? 
What  do  they  say  aloud  to  the  whole  Nation,  but  this  (even  as 
plainly  as  if  it  were  proclaimed  by  Heralds  through  the  streets 
of  London)  You  are  Slaves  and  Fools,  and  so  lie  use  you? 
These  are  briefly  a  part  of  those  merits  which  you  lament  to 
have  wanted  the  reward  of  more  Kingdomes,  and  suppose  that 
if  he  had  lived  longer  he  might  have  had  them ;  Which  I  am 
so  far  from  concurring  to,  that  I  believe  his  seasonable  dying  to 
have  been  a  greater  good  fortune  to  him  than  all  the  vidtories 
and  prosperities  of  his  Life.   For  he  seemed  evidently  (methinks) 
to  be  near  the  end  of  his  deceitful  1  Glories ;  his  own  Army 
grew  at  last  as  weary  of  him  as  the  rest  of  the  People  ;  and  I 
never  past  of  late  before  his  Palace  (His,  do  I  call  it  ?  I  ask 
God  and  the  King  pardon)  but  I  never  past  of  late  before 
Whitehall  without  reading  upon  the  Gate  of  it,  Menty  Mene^ 
Tekel^  Upharsin,     But  it  pleased  God  to  take  him   from  the 
ordinary  Courts  of  Men,  and  Juries  of  his  Peers,  to  his  own 
High  Court  of  Justice,  which  being  more  mercifull  than  Ours 
below,  there  is  a  little  room  yet  left  for  the  hope  of  his  friends, 
if  he  have  any  ;  though  the  outward  unrepentance  of  his  death 
afford  but  small  materials  for  the  work  of  Charity,  especially 
if  he  designed  even  then  to  Entail  his  own  injustice  upon  his 
Children,  and   by   it  inextricable  confusions  and  Civil  Wars 
upon  the  Nation.     But  here's  at  last  an  end  of  him  ;    And 
where's  now  the  fruit  of  all  that  blood  and  calamity  which  his 
ambition  has  cost  the  World  ?    Where  is  it  ?    Why,  his  Son 
(you'l  say)  has  the  whole  Crop  ;  I  doubt  he  will  find  it  quickly 
Blasted  ;  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  Gentleman,  or  any 
living  of  his  family,  on  the  contrary  I  wish  him  better  fortune 
than  to  have  a  long  and   unquiet   possession  of  his  Masters 
inheritance.     Whatsoever  I  have  spoken  against  his  Father,  is 
that  which  I  should  have  thought  (though  Decency  perhaps 
might   have   hindred  me  from   saying  it)  even  against  mine 
Own,  if  I  had  been  so  unhappy,  as  that  Mine  by  the  same 
wayes  should  have  left  me  three  Kingdoms. 

Here  I  stopt ;  and  my  pretended  Protestor,  who,  I  expeded, 
should  have  been  very  angry,  fell  a  laughing ;  it  seems  at  the 
simplicity  of  my  discourse,  for  thus  he  replied :  You  seem  to 
pretend   extremely  to   the   old   obsolete   rules  of  Virtue  and 

37^ 


OLIVER   CROMWEL 

Conscience,  which  makes  me  doubt  very  much  whether  from 
this  vast  prospect  of  three  Kingdoms  you  can  show  me  any 
acres  of  your  own.  But  these  are  so  far  from  making  you  a 
Prince,  that  I  am  afraid  your  friends  will  never  have  the 
contentment  to  see  you  so  much  as  a  Justice  of  Peace  in  your 
own  Countrey.  For  this  I  perceive  which  you  call  Virtue, 
is  nothing  else  but  either  the  frowardness  of  a  Cynick,  or  the 
laziness  of  an  Epicurean.  I  am  glad  you  allow  me  at  least 
Artfiill  Dissimulation,  and  unwearied  Diligence  in  my  Heroy 
and  I  assure  you  that  he  whose  Life  is  constantly  drawn  by 
those  two,  shall  never  be  misled  out  of  the  way  of  Greatness. 
But  I  see  you  are  a  Pedant,  and  Platonical  Statesman,  a 
Theoretical  Common- wealths-man,  an  Utopian  Dreamer.  Was 
ever  Riches  gotten  by  your  Golden  Mediocrities?  or  the 
Supreme  place  attained  to  by  Virtues  that  must  not  stir  out 
of  the  middle  ?  Do  you  study  AristotUs  Politiques,  and  write, 
if  you  please.  Comments  upon  them,  and  let  another  but 
praflise  Machiavlly  and  let  us  see  then  which  of  you  two  will 
come  to  the  greatest  preferments.  If  the  desire  of  rule  and 
superiority  be  a  Virtue  (as  sure  I  am  it  is  more  imprinted  in 
human  Nature  than  any  of  your  Lethargical  Morals ;  and  what 
is  the  Virtue  of  any  Creature  but  the  exercise  of  those  powers 
and  Inclinations  which  God  has  infused  into  it  ?)  if  that  (I  say) 
be  Virtue,  we  ought  not  to  esteem  any  thing  Vice,  which  is  the 
most  proper,  if  not  the  onely  means  of  attaining  of  it. 

It  is  a  Truth  so  certain,  and  so  clear, 

That  to  the  first-born  Man  it  did  appear ; 

Did  not,  the  mighty  Heir,  the  noble  Cairiy 

By  the  fresh  Laws  of  Nature  taught,  disdain 

That  (though  a  Brother)  any  one  should  be 

A  greater  Favourite  to  God  than  He? 

He  strook  him  down  ;  and,  so  (said  He)  so  fell 

The  Sheep  which  thou  didst  Sacrifice  so  well. 

Since  all  the  fullest  Sheaves  which  I  could  bring. 

Since  all  were  Blasted  in  the  Offering, 

Lest  God  should  my  next  Vi6lime  too  despise. 

The  acceptable  Priest  I'le  Sacrifice. 

Hence  Coward  Fears ;   for  the  first  Blood  so  spilt 

As  a  Reward,  He  the  first  City  built. 

373 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

'Twas  a  beginning  generous  and  high, 
Fit  for  a  Grand-Child  of  the  Deity. 
So  well  advanced,  *twas  pity  there  he  staid ; 
One  step  of  Glory  more  he  should  have  made. 
And  to  the  utmost  bounds  of  Greatness  gone ; 
Had  Adam  too  been  killM,  He  might  have  ReignM  Alone. 
One  Brother's  death,  What  do  I  mean  to  name, 
A  small  Oblation  to  Revenge  and  Fame  ? 
The  mighty-soul'd  Ablmilec  to  shew  ' 

What  for  high  place  a  higher  Spirit  can  do, 
A  Hecatomb  almost  of  Brethren  slew. 
And  seventy  times  in  nearest  blood  he  dy'd 
(To  make  it  hold)  his  Royal  Purple  Pride- 
Why  do  I  name  the  Lordly  Creature  Man  ? 
The  weak,  the  mild,  the  Coward  Woman,  can,  i 

When  to  a  Crown  she  cuts  her  sacred  way. 
All  that  oppose  with  Manlike  Courage  slay. 
So  Athaliah^  when  she  saw  her  Son, 
And  with  his  Life  her  dearer  Greatness  gone. 
With  a  Majestique  fury  slaughter'd  all 
Whom  high  birth  might  to  high  pretences  call. 
Since  he  was  dead  who  all  her  power  sustained, 
Resolv'd  to  reign  alone ;    Resolv'd,  and  Reign'd.  | 

In  vain  her  Sex,  in  vain  the  Laws  withstood,  \ 

In  vain  the  sacred  plea  of  DavicTs  Blood, 
A  noble,  and  a  bold  contention,  She, 
(One  Woman)  undertook  with  Destiny. 
She  to  pluck  down,  Destiny  to  uphold 
(Oblig'd  by  holy  Oracles  of  old) 
The  great  Jessaan  race  on  Juda^s  Throne  ; 
Till  'twas  at  last  an  equal  Wager  grown. 
Scarce  Fate,  with  much  adoe,  the  Better  got  by  One. 
Tell  me  not  she  her  self  at  last  was  slain  ; 
Did  she  not  first  seven  years  (a  Life-time)  reign  ? 
Seven  royal  years  t'  a  publick  spirit  will  seem 
More  than  the  private  Life  of  a  Methusalem, 
'Tis  Godlike  to  be  Great ;    and  as  they  say 
A  thousand  years  to  God  are  but  a  day : 
So  to  a  Man,  when  once  a  Crown  he  wears, 
The  Coronation  Days  more  than  a  thousand  years. 


374 


OLIVER  CROMWEL 

He  would  have  ^ne  on  I  perceivM  in  his  blasphemies,  but 
that  by  Gods  Grace  I  became  so  bold  as  thus  to  interrupt  him. 
I  understand  now  perfectly  (which  I  guest  at  long  before)  what 
kind  of  Angel  and  Proteftor  you  are ;  and  though  your  stile  in 
verse  be  very  much  mended  since  you  were  wont  to  deliver 
Oracles,  yet  your  Dodtrine  is  much  worse  than  ever  you  had 
formerly  (that  I  heard  of)  the  fiice  to  publish  ;  whether  your 
long  practice  with  mankind  has  encreast  and  improved  your 
malice,  or  whether  you  think  Us  in  this  age  to  be  grown  so 
impudently  wicked,  that  there  needs  no  more  Art  or  Disguises 
to  draw  us  to  your  party.  My  Dominion  (said  he  hastily,  and 
with  a  dreadful  furious  look)  is  so  great  in  this  World,  and  I 
am  so  powerful  a  Monarch  of  it,  that  I  need  not  be  ashamed 
that  you  should  know  me ;  and  that  you  may  see  I  know  you 
too,  I  know  you  to  be  an  obstinate  and  inveterate  Malignant ; 
and  for  that  reason  I  shall  take  you  along  with  me  to  the  next 
Garrison  of  Ours ;  from  whence  you  shall  go  to  the  Tower, 
and  from  thence  to  the  Court  of  Justice,  and  from  thence  you 
know  whither.  I  was  almost  in  the  very  pounces  of  the  great 
Bird  of  prey, 


When,  Lo,  e're  the  last  words  were  fiilly  spoke. 

From  a  fair  Cloud,  which  rather  ope'd,  than  broke, 

A  flash  of  Light  rather  than  Lightning  came. 

So  swift,  and  yet  so  gentle  was  the  Flame. 

Upon  it  rode,  and  in  his  full  Career, 

Seem'd  to  my  Eyes  no  sooner  There  than  Here, 

The  comliest  Youth  of  all  th'  Angelique  Race ; 

Lovely  his  shape,  ineffable  his  Face. 

The  Frowns  with  which  he  strook  the  trembling  Fiend, 

All  smiles  of  Humane  Beauty  did  transcend, 

His  Beams  of  Locks  fell  part  dishevel'd  down. 

Part  upwards  curld,  and  form'd  a  nat'ral  Crown, 

Such  as  the  Brittish  Monarchs  us'd  to  wear ;  • 

If  Gold  might  be  compared  with  Angels  Hair. 

His  Coat  and  flowing  Mantle  were  so  bright. 

They  seemM  both  made  of  woven  Silver  Light : 

Across  his  Breast  an  azure  Ruban  went, 

At  which  a  Medal  hung  that  did  present 

375 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

In  wondrous  living  figures  to  the  sight, 

The  tnystick  Champions,  and  old  Dragon's  Aght, 

And  from  his  Mantles  side  there  shone  afar, 

A  £xt,  and,  I  believe,  a  real  Sur. 

In  his  fair  hand  (what  need  was  there  of  more?) 

No  Arms  but  th'  Englith  bloody  Cross  he  bore, 

Which  when  he  towards  th'  affrighted  Tyrant  bent. 

And  some  few  words  pronounc'd  (but  what  they  meant, 

Or  were,  could  not,  alas,  by  me  be  known, 

Only  I  well  perceiv'd  Jesus  was  one) 

He  trembled,  and  he  roar'd,  and  fled  away ; 

Mad  to  ijuit  thus  his  more  than  hop'd-for  prey. 

Such  Rage  inflames  the  Wolves  wild  heart  and  eyes 

(Rob'd  as  he  thinks  unjustly  of  his  prize) 

Whom  unawares  the  Shepherd  spies,  and  draws 

The  bleating  Lamb  from  out  his  ravenous  jaws. 

The  Shepherd  fain  himself  would  he  assail. 

But  Fear  above  his  Hunger  does  prevail. 

He  knows  his  Foe  too  strong,  and  must  be  gone ; 

He  grins  as  he  l<xiks  back,  and  howls  as  he  goes  on. 


376 


Several  Discourses  by  way  of 
Sssays^  in  Verse  and  Prose. 


I.     Of  Liberty. 

THE  Liberty  of  a  people  consists  in  being  governed  by  Laws 
which  they  have  made  themselves,  under  whatsoever  form 
it  be  of  Government.  The  Liberty  of  a  private  man  in  being 
Master  of  his  own  Time  and  Adlions,  as  far  as  may  consist 
with  the  Laws  of  God  and  of  his  Country.  Of  this  latter  only 
we  are  here  to  discourse,  and  to  enquire  what  estate  of  Life 
does  best  seat  us  in  the  possession  of  it.  This  Liberty  of  our 
own  A£tions  is  such  a  Fundamental  Priviledge  of  human 
Nature,  that  God  himself  notwithstanding  all  his  infinite  power 
and  right  over  us,  permits  us  to  enjoy  it,  and  that  too  after  a 
Forfeiture  made  by  the  Rebellion  of  Adam,  He  takes  so  much 
care  for  the  intire  preservation  of  it  to  us,  that  he  suffers 
neither  his  Providence  nor  Eternal  Decree  to  break  or  infringe 
it.  Now  for  our  Time,  the  same  God,  to  whom  we  are  but 
Tcnants-at-will  for  the  whole,  requires  but  the  seventh  part  to 
be  paid  to  him  as  a  small  Quit-Rent  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
Tide.  It  is  man  only  that  has  the  impudence  to  demand  our 
whole  time,  though  he  neither  gave  it,  nor  can  restore  it,  nor 
is  able  to  pay  any  considerable  valew  for  the  least  part  of  it. 
This  Birth-right  of  mankind  above  all  other  creatures,  some 
are  forced  by  hunger  to  sell,  like  Esau^  for  Bread  and  Broth, 
but  the  greatest  part  of  men  make  such  a  Bargain  for  the 
delivery  up  of  themselves,  as  Thamar  did  with  Judah^  instead 
of  a  Kid,  the  necessary  provisions  for  humane  life,  they  are 
contented  to  do  it  for  Rings  and  Bracelets.  The  great  dealers 
in  this  world  may  be  divided  into  the  Ambitious,  the  Covetous, 
and  the  Voluptuous,  and  that  all  these  men  sell  themselves  to 

377 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

be  slaves,  though  to  the  vulgar  it  may  seem  a  Stoical  Paradox, 
will  appear  to  the  wise  so  plain  and  obvious  that  they  will 
scarce  think  it  deserves  the  labour  of  Argumentation.  Let 
us  first  consider  the  Ambitious,  and  those  both  in  their  progress 
to  Greatness,  and  after  the  attaining  of  it.  There  is  nothing 
truer  than  what  SaJust  saies,  Dominationis  in  alios  servitiam  suam 
Mercedem  danty  They  are  content  to  pay  so  great  a  price  as 
their  own  Servitude  to  purchase  the  domination  over  others. 
The  first  thing  they  must  resolve  to  sacrifice,  is  their  whole 
time,  they  must  never  stop,  nor  ever  turn  aside  whilst  they 
are  in  the  race  of  Glory,  no  not  like  Atalanta  for  Golden 
Apples.  Neither  indeed  can  a  man  stop  himself  if  he  would 
when  he's  in  this  Career.  Fertur  equis  Auriga  nejue  audit 
Currus  habenas. 

Pray,  let  us  but  consider  a  little,  what  mean  servil  things 
men  do  for  this  Imaginary  Food.  We  cannot  fetch  a  greater 
example  of  it,  then  from  the  chief  men  of  that  Nation  which 
boasted  most  of  Liberty.  To  what  pitiful  baseness  did  the 
noblest  Romans  submit  themselves  for  the  obtaining  of  a 
Prsetorship,  or  the  Consular  dignity :  they  put  on  the  Habit 
of  Suppliants,  and  ran  about  on  foot,  and  in  durt,  through  all 
the  Tribes  to  beg  voices,  they  flattered  the  poorest  Artisans, 
and  carried  a  Nomenclator  with  them,  to  whisper  in  their  car 
every  mans  name,  least  they  should  mistake  it  in  their  saluta- 
tions :  they  shook  the  hand,  and  kist  the  cheek  of  every  popular 
Tradesman  ;  they  stood  all  day  at  every  Market  in  the  publick 
places  to  shew  and  ingratiate  themselves  to  the  rout ;  thejr 
imploy'd  all  their  friends  to  sollicite  for  them,  they  kept  open 
Tables  in  every  street,  they  distributed  wine  and  bread  and 
money,  even  to  the  vilest  of  the  people.  En  Romanos  rerum 
Dominos!  Behold  the  Masters  of  the  World  begging  from  door 
to  door.  This  particular  humble  way  to  Greatness  is  now  out 
of  fashion,  but  yet  every  Ambitious  person  is  still  in  some  sort 
a  Roman  Candidate.  He  must  feast  and  bribe,  and  attend  and 
flatter,  and  adore  many  Beasts,  though  not  the  Beast  with 
many  heads.  Cat[t]line  who  was  so  proud  that  he  could  not 
content  himself  with  a  less  power  than  Sylla^Sj  was  yet  so 
humble  for  the  attaining  of  it,  as  to  make  himself  the  most 
contemptible  of  all  Servants,  to  be  a  publique  Bawd,  to  provide 
whores,  and  something  worse,  for  all  the  young  Gentlemen  o( 

378 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

R^nUy  whose  hot  lusts  and  courages,  and  heads  he  thought  he 
might  make  use  of.  And  since  I  happen  here  to  propose 
Cat[t]Iine  for  my  instance  (though  there  be  thousand  of 
Examples  for  the  same  thing)  give  me  leave  to  transcribe 
the  Chara£ler  which  Cicero  gives  of  this  noble  Slave,  because 
it  is  a  general  description  of  all  Ambitious  men,  and  which 
Machiavil  perhaps  would  say  ought  to  be  the  rule  of  their  life 
and  adtions.  This  man  (saies  he,  as  most  of  you  may  well  9p*i:J?T 
remember)  had  many  artificial  touches  and  stroakes  that  look'd 
like  the  beauty  of  great  Virtues,  his  intimate  conversation  was 
with  the  worst  of  men,  and  yet  he  seemM  to  be  an  Admirer 
and  Lover  of  the  best,  he  was  furnish't  with  all  the  nets  of 
Lust  and  Luxury,  and  yet  wanted  not  the  Arms  of  Labour 
and  Industry:  neither  do  I  believe  that  there  was  ever  any 
monster  in  nature,  composed  out  of  so  many  different  and 
disagreeing  parts.  Who  more  acceptable,  sometimes,  to  the 
most  honorable  persons,  who  more  a  favourite  to  the  most 
Infiunous  ?  who,  sometimes,  appear'd  a  braver  Champion,  who 
at  other  times,  a  bolder  Enemy  to  his  Country  ?  who  more 
dissolute  in  his  pleasures,  who  more  patient  in  his  toiles  ?  who 
more  rapacious  in  robbing,  who  more  profuse  in  giving  i 
Above  all  things,  this  was  remarkable  and  admirable  in  him. 
The  arts  he  had  to  acquire  the  good  opinion  and  kindness  of 
all  sorts  of  men,  to  retain  it  with  great  complaisance,  to 
communicate  all  things  to  them,  to  watch  and  serve  all  the 
occasions  of  their  fortune,  both  with  his  money  and  his  interest, 
and  his  industry ;  and  if  need  were,  not  by  sticking  at  any 
wickedness  whatsoever  that  might  be  useful  to  them,  to  bend 
and  turn  about  his  own  Nature  and  laveer  with  every  wind, 
to  live  severely  with  the  melancholy,  merrily  with  the  pleasant, 
gravely  with  the  aged,  wantonly  with  the  young,  desperately 
with  the  bold,  and  debauchedly  with  the  luxurious :  with  this 
variety  and  multiplicity  of  his  nature,  as  he  had  made  a 
coUeflion  of  friendships  with  all  the  most  wicked  and  reckless 
of  all  Nations,  so  by  the  artificial  simulation  of  some  vertues, 
he  made  a  shift  to  ensnare  some  honest  and  eminent  persons 
into  his  femiliarity ;  neither  could  so  vast  a  design  as  the 
destrudtion  of  this  Empire  have  been  undertaken  by  him,  if 
the  immanity  of  so  many  vices  had  not  been  covered  and 
disguised  by  the  appearances  of  some  excellent  qualities. 

379 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

I  see,  methinks,  the  Charadter  of  an  Anti^Paul^  who  became 
all  things  to  all  men,  that  he  might  destroy  all ;  who  only 
wanted  the  assistance  of  Fortune  to  have  been  as  great  as  his 
Friend  Casar  was  a  little  after  him.  And  the  ways  of  Caesar 
to  compass  the  same  ends  (I  mean  till  the  Civil  War,  which 
was  but  another  manner  of  setting  his  Country  on  Fire)  were 
not  unlike  these,  though  he  used  afterward  his  unjust  Dominion 
with  more  moderation  then  I  think  the  other  would  have  done. 
Salust  therefore  who  was  well  acquainted  with  them  both,  and 
with  many  such  like  Gentlemen  of  his  time,  saies.  That  it  is 
the  nature  of  Ambition  {Ambitio  multos  mortaUs  f alios  fieri 
coegit  fsf)  to  make  men  Lyers  and  Cheaters,  to  hide  the  Truth 
in  their  breasts,  and  show,  like  juglers,  another  thing  in  their 
Mouths,  to  cut  all  fri[e]ndships  and  enmities  to  the  measure  of 
their  own  Interest,  and  to  make  a  good  Countenance  without 
the  help  of  good  will.  And  can  there  be  Freedom  with  this 
perpetual  constraint  ?  What  is  it  but  a  kind  of  Rack  that  forces 
men  to  say  what  they  have  no  mind  to  ?  I  have  wondred  at 
the  extravagant  and  barbarous  stratagem  of  Zopirus^  and  more 
at  the  praises  which  I  finde  of  so  deformed  an  adlion  ;  who 
though  he  was  one  of  the  seven  Grandees  of  Persioy  and  the 
Son  of  Megabhes^  who  had  freed  before  his  Country  from  an 
ignoble  Servitude,  slit  his  own  Nose  and  Lips,  cut  off  his  own 
Ears,  scourged  and  wounded  his  whole  body,  that  he  might, 
under  pretence  of  having  been  mangled  so  inhumanly  by 
Darius^  be  received  into  Babylon  (then  beseiged  by  the  Persians) 
and  get  into  the  command  of  it  by  the  recommendation  of  so 
cruel  a  Sufferance,  and  their  hopes  of  his  endeavouring  to 
revenge  it.  It  is  great  pity  the  Babylonians  suspected  not  his 
falshood,  that  they  might  have  cut  off  his  hands  too,  and  whipt 
him  back  again.  But  the  design  succeeded,  he  betrayed  the 
City,  and  was  made  Governour  of  it.  What  brutish  master 
ever  punished  his  offending  Slave  with  so  little  mercy  as 
Ambition  did  this  Zopirus  ?  and  yet  how  many  are  there  in 
all  nations  who  imitate  him  in  some  degree  for  a  less  reward? 
who  though  they  indure  not  so  much  corporal  pain  for  a  small 
preferment  or  some  honour  (as  they  call  it)  yet  stick  not  to 
commit  adlions,  by  which  they  are  more  shamefully  and  more 
lastingly  stigmatized  ?  But  you  may  say.  Though  these  be 
the  most  ordinary  and  open  waies  to  greatness,  yet  there  arc 

380 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

narrow,  thorney,  and  little-trodden  paths  too,  through  which 
some  men  finde  a  passage  by  vertuous  industry.  I  grant, 
sometimes  they  may ;  but  then  that  Industry  must  be  such, 
as  cannot  consist  with  Liberty,  though  it  may  with  Honesty. 

Thou  'rt  careful,  frugal,  painful ;  we  commend  a  Servant 
so,  but  not  a  Fr[ie]nd. 

Well  then,  we  must  acknowledg  the  toil  and  drudgery 
which  we  are  forced  to  endure  in  this  Ascent,  but  we  arc 
Epicures  and  Lords  when  once  we  are  gotten  up  into  the 
High  Places.  This  is  but  a  short  Apprentiship  after  which 
we  are  made  free  of  a  Royal  Company.  If  we  fall  in  love 
with  any  beautious  woman,  we  must  be  content  that  they 
should  be  our  Mistresses  whilst  we  woo  them,  as  soon  as  we 
are  wedded  and  enjoy,  'tis  we  shall  be  the  Masters. 

I  am  willing  to  stick  to  this  similitude  in  the  case  of 
Greatness ;  we  enter  into  the  Bonds  of  it,  like  those  of 
Matrimony ;  we  are  bewitcht  with  the  outward  and  painted 
Beauty,  and  take  it  for  Better  or  worse,  before  we  know  its 
true  nature  and  interiour  Inco[n]veniences.  A  great  Fortune 
(saies  Seneca)  is  a  great  servitude.  But  many  are  of  that 
Opinion  which  Brutus  imputes  (I  hope  untruly)  even  to  that 
Patron  of  Liberty,  his  Friend  Cicero^  We  fear  (saies  he  to 
Atticus)  Death,  and  Banishment,  and  Poverty,  a  great  deal  too 
much.  Cicero  J  I  am  afraid,  thinks  these  to  be  the  worst  of 
evils,  and  if  he  have  but  some  persons,  from  whom  he  can 
obtain  what  he  has  a  mind  to,  and  others  who  will  flatter  and 
worship  him,  seems  to  be  well  enough  contented  with  an 
honorable  servitude,  if  any  thing  indeed  ought  to  be  called 
honorable,  in  so  base  and  contumelious  a  condition.  This  was 
spoken  as  became  the  bravest  man  who  was  ever  born  in  the 
bravest  Commonwealth  :  But  with  us  generally,  no  condition 
passes  for  servitude,  that  is  accompanied  with  great  riches,  with 
honors,  and  with  the  service  of  many  Inferiours.  This  is  but 
a  Deception  of  the  sight  through  a  false  medium,  for  if  a 
Groom  serve  a  Gentleman  in  his  chamber,  that  Gentleman 
a  Lord,  and  that  Lord  a  Prince  ;  The  Groom,  the  Gentleman, 
and  the  Lord,  are  as  much  servants  one  as  the  other :  the 
circumstantial  difference  of  the  ones  getting  only  his  Bread 
and  wages,  the  second  a  plentiful,  and  the  third  a  superfluous 
estate,  is  no  more  intrinsical  to  this  matter  then  the  difference 

381 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

between  a  plain,  a  rich  and  gaudv  Livery.     I  do  not  sav,  That 
he  who  sells  his  whole  time,  and  his  own  will  for  one  hundred 
thousand,  is  not  a  wiser  Merchant  than  he  who  does  it  for  one 
hundred  pounds,  but  I  will  swear,  they  are  both  Merchants, 
and  that  he  is  happier  than  both,  who  can  live  contentedlv 
without  selling  that  estate  to  which  he  was  bom.     But  this 
Dependance  upon  Superiours  is  but  one  chain  of  the  Lovers  of 
Power,  Amatorem  Trecenta  \Pirithoum\cohibent  catena.     Let's 
begin  with    him   by  break  of  day :    For   by  that    time   he*s 
besieged  by  two  or  three  hundred  Suitors ;  and  the  Hall  and 
Antichambers  (all  the  Outworks)   possest  by  the   Enemy  as 
soon  as  his  Chamber  opens,  they  are  ready  to  break  into  that, 
or  to  corrupt  the  Guards,  for  entrance.     This  is  so  essential 
a  part  of  Greatness,  that  whosoever  is  without  it,  looks  like 
a  Fallen  Favorite,  like  a  person  disgraced,  and  condemned  to 
do  what  he  please  all   the  morning.     There   are   some  who 
rather  then  want  this,  are  contented  to  have  their  rooms  fild 
up  every  day  with  murmuring  and  cursing  Creditors,  and  to 
charge  bravely  through  a  Body  of  them  to  get  to  their  Coach. 
Now  I  would  fain  know  which  is  the  worst  duty,  that  of  any 
one  particular  person  who  waits  to  speak  with  the  Great  man, 
or  the  Great  mans,  who  waits  every  day  to  speak  with  all  the 
comfMiny.     Aliena   negotia  centum  Per  caput  £5*  circum  saliunt 
latusy  A  hundred   businesses  of  other  men  (many  unjust  and 
most  impertinent)  fly  continually  about  his  Head  and  £ars,  and 
strike  him  in  the  I*  ace  like  Dorres ;  Let's  contemplate  him  a 
little  at  another  special  Scene  of  Glory,  and  that  is,  his  Table. 
Here  he  seems  to  be  the  Lord  of  all  Nature :    The  Earth 
affords  him  her  best  Metals  for  his  dishes,  her  best  Vegetables 
and  Animals  for  his  food ;    the  Air  and  Sea  supply  him  with 
their  choicest  Birds  and  Fishes :  and  a  great  many  men  who 
look  like  Masters,  attend  upon  him,  and  yet  when  all  this  is 
done,  even  all  this  is  but  Table  d'Hoste,  'Tis  crowded  with 
people  for  whom  he  cares  not,  for  with  many  Parasites,  and 
some   Spies,  with  the  most  burdensome  sort  of  Guests,  the 
Endeavourers  to  be  witty. 

But  every  body  pays  him  great  respedt,  every  body  commends 
his  Meat,  that  is,  his  Mony ;  every  body  admires  the  exquisite 
dressing  &  ordering  of  it,  that  is,  his  Clark  of  the  kitchin,  or 
his  Cook ;  every  body  loves  his  Hospitality,  that  is,  his  Vanity. 

382 


ESSAYS,    IN   VERSE    AND    PROSE 

But  I  desire  to  know  why  the  honest  In-keeper  who  provides  a 
publick  Table  for  his  Profit,  should  be  but  of  a  mean  profession  ; 
and  he  who  docs  it  for  his  Honour,  a  tnunificeni  Prince,  You'l 
say,  Because  one  sels,  and  the  othtr  gives  :  Nay,  both  sell, 
though  for  diifereni  things,  the  one  for  plain  Money,  the  other 
for  I  know  not  what  Jewels,  whose  value  is  in  Custom  and  in 
Fancy.  If  ihen  his  Table  be  made  a  Snare  (as  the  Scripture 
spcakes)  to  his  Liberty,  where  can  he  hope  for  Freedom,  there 
is  alwaics,  and  every  where  some  restraint  upon  him.  He's 
guarded  with  Crowds,  and  shackled  with  Formalities.  The 
half  hat,  the  whole  hat,  the  half  smile,  the  whole  smile,  the 
nod,  the  embrace,  the  Positive  parting  with  a  little  bow,  the 
Comparative  at  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  Superlative  at 
the  door  ;  and  if  the  person  be  Pan  huper  uiastui,  there's  a 
Hupcnuperlalivf  ceremony  then  of  conducting  him  to  the 
boitomc  of  the  stairs,  or  to  the  very  gate;  as  if  there  were 
such  Rules  set  to  these  Leu'iatham  as  are  to  the  Sea,  Hitherle 
ihalt  thou  gSy  and  na  further.  Ptrditur  hac  inttr  m'urr\i>\  Lux, 
Thus  wretchedly  the  precious  day    is  lost. 

How  many  impertinent  Letters  and  Visits  must  he  receive, 
and  sometimes  answer  both  too  as  impertinently  ?  he  never  sets 
his  foot  beyond  his  Threshold,  unless,  like  a  Funeral,  he  have 
a  train  to  follow  him,  as  if,  like  the  dead  Corps,  he  could  not 
stir,  till  the  Bearers  were  all  ready.  My  life,  (sayes  Horace, 
speaking  to  one  of  these  Magn'ifico'i)  is  a  great  deal  more  easie 
and  commodious  then  thine.  In  that  I  can  go  into  the  Market 
and  cheapen  what  I  please  without  being  wondred  at ;  and 
take  my  Horse  and  ride  as  far  as  Tarenlum,  without  being 
mist,  Tis  an  unpleasant  constraint  to  be  alwayes  under  the 
sight  and  observation,  and  censure  of  others ;  as  there  may  be 
Vanity  in  it,  so  mcthinks,  there  should  be  Vexation  too  of 
spirit :  And  I  wonder  how  Princes  can  endure  to  have  two 
or  three  hundred  men  stand  gazing  upon  them  whilst  they 
are  at  dinner,  and  taking  notice  of  every  bit  they  eat.  Nothing 
seems  greater  and  more  Lordly  then  the  multitude  of  Domestick 
Servants ;  but,  even  this  too,  if  weighed  seriously,  is  a  piece  of 
Servitude;  unless  you  will  be  a  Servant  to  them  (as  many  ' 
men  are)  the  trouble  and  care  of  yours  in  the  Government 
of  them  all,  is  much  more  then  that  of  every  one  of  them  in 
their  observance  of  you.     I  take  the  Profession  of  a  School- 

383 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Master  to  be  one  of  the  most  usefiill,  and  which  ought  to  be 
of  the  most  honourable  in  a  Commonwealth,  yet  certainly  all 
his  Fasces  and  Tyrannical  Aut[h]ority  over  so  many  Boy^  taka 
away  his  own  Liberty  more  than  theirs. 

I  do  but  slightly  touch  upon  all  these  particulars  of  the 
slavery  of  Greatness :    I  shake  but  a  few  of  their  outward 
Chains ;    their  Anger,  Hatred,  Jealousie,  Fear,  Envy,  Grief, 
and  all  the  Etcatera  of  their  Passions,  which  are  the  secret, 
but  constant  Tyrants  and  Torturers  of  their  life,  I  omit  here, 
because  though  they  be  symptomes  most  frequent  and  violent 
in  this  Disease ;  yet  they  are  common  too  in  some  degree  to 
the  Epidemical  Disease  of  Life  it  self.     But,  the  Ambitious 
man,  though  he  be  so  many  wayes  a  slave  (O  toties  servus!) 
yet  he  bears  it  bravely  and  heroically  ;  he  struts  and  looks  big 
upon  the  Stage;  he  thinks  himself  a  real  Prince  in  his  Masking 
Habit,  and  deceives  too  all  the  foolish  part  of  his  Spedlators : 
He's  a  slave  in  Saturnalibus,     The  Covetous  Man  is  a  down- 
right  Servant,  a  Draught  Horse  without  Bells  or  Feathers; 
ad  Metalla  damnatus^  3.  man   condemned  to  work  in  Mines, 
which  is  the  lowest  and  hardest  condition  of  servitude ;  and, 
to   encrease    his    Misery,  a  worker   there  for  he   knows  not 
whom  :   He  heapeth  up  Riches  and  knows  not  who  shall  enjoy 
them ;    'Tis  onely  sure  that  he  himself  neither  shall  nor  can 
inioy  them.     He's   an    indigent   needy  slave,  he  will   hardly 
yia^.'        allow  himself  Cloaths,  and  Board- Wages  ;  Unciatim  vix  dememo 
de  suo  suum  defraudam  Gen'iutn  comtariit  miser ;     He  defrauds 
not  only  other  Men,  but  his  own  Genius ;    He  cheats  himself 
for    Mony.     But  the  servile  and  miserable  condition  of  this 
wretch  is  so  apparent,  that  I  leave  it,  as  evident  to  every  mans 
sight,  as  well  as  judgment.     It  seems  a  more  difficult  work  to 
prove  that  the  Voluptuous  Man  too  is  but  a  servant :  What 
can  be  more  the  life  of  a  Freeman,  or  as  we  say  ordinarily,  of 
a  Gentleman,  then  to  follow  nothing  but  his  own  pleasures? 
Why,  rie  tell  you  who  is  that  true  Freeman,  and  that  true 
Gentleman  ;  Not  he  who  blindly  follows  all  his  pleasures  (the 
very  name  of  Follower  is  servile)  but  he  who  rationally  guides 
them,  and    is   not    hindred    by  outward    impediments  in  the 
conduft  and  enjoyment  of  them.     If  I  want  skill  or  force  to 
restrain  the  Beast  that  I  ride  upon,  though  I  bought  it,  and 
call  it  my  own,  yet  in  the  truth  of  the  matter  I  am  at  that 

384 


Sefl.  I. 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND    PROSE 

time  rather  his  Man,  then  he  my  Horse.  The  Voluptuous 
Men  (whom  we  are  fallen  upon)  may  be  divided,  I  think, 
into  the  Lustful  and  Luxurious,  who  are  both  servants  of  the 
Belly ;  the  other  whom  we  spoke  of  before,  the  Ambitious 
and  the  Covetous,  were  KaKo.  Sijpta,  Evil  wildc  Beasts,  these 
are  raarept^  apyai,  slow  Bellies,  as  our  Translation  renders 
it ;  but  the  word  'Apyal  (which  is  a  fantastical  word,  with 
two  diredlly  opposite  significations)  will  bear  as  well  the 
translation  of  Quick  or  Diligent  Bellies,  and  both  Interpreta- 
tions may  be  applyed  to  these  men.  Metrodorui  said,  That  he 
had  learnt  "AXij^ws  yaa-rpi  ^aplK^trSai,  to  give  his  Belly  just 
thanks  for  all  his  pleasures.  This  by  the  Calumniators  of 
Epicurus  his  Philosophy  was  objcdied  as  one  of  the  most 
scandalous  of  all  their  sayings;  which,  according  to  my 
Charitable  luiderstanding  may  admit  a  very  virtuous  sence, 
which  is,  that  he  thanked  his  own  Belly  for  that  moderation 
in  the  customar}-  appetites  of  it,  wh  ich  can  only  give  a  Man 
Liberty  and  Happiness  in  this  World.  Let  this  suffice  at 
present  to  be  spoken  of  those  great  Triumviri  of  the  World  ; 
the  Covetous  Man,  who  is  a  mean  villain,  like  Lepidut  ^  the 
Ambitious,  who  is  a  brave  one,  like  OStaviui^  and  the 
Voluptuous,  who  is  a  loose  and  debauched  one,  like  Mark 
Anlany.  Quisnam  igifur  Lihtr  ?  Sapifni,  siii  qui  Jmperiasus :  f 
Not  Oenemaui,  who  commits  himself  wholly  to  a  Chariotteer  si 
that  may  break  his  Neck,  but  the  Man, 

Who  governs  his  own  coune  vrith  steddy  hand. 
Who  does  Himself  with  Sovereign   Pow'r  command  ; 
Whom  neither  Death,  nor  Poverty  does  fright. 
Who  stands  not  aukwardly  in   his  own  light 
Against  the  Truth  :    who  can   when  Pleasures  knock 
Loud  at  his  door,  keep  tirm  the  bolt  and  lock. 
^_         Who  can  though   Honour  at  his  gate  should  stay 
^H      In  alt  her  Masking  Cloaihs,  send  her  away, 
^H      And  cry,  be  gone,  I  have  no  mind  to  Play. 

^T'his  I  confess  is  a  Freeman :  but  it  may  he  said,  That  many 
persons  are  so  shackled  by  iheir  Fortune,  that  they  are  hindred 
from  enjoyment  of  that  Manumission  which  they  have  obtained 
from  Virtue.    I  do  both  understand,  and  in  part  feel  the  weight 

kthis  objeftion:  All  I  can  Answer  to  it,  is,  That  we  must 
c,  11.  BB  385 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

get  as  much  Liberty  as  we  can,  we  must  use  our  utmost 
endeavours,  and  when  all  that  is  done,  be  contented  with  the 
Length  of  that  Line  which  is  allow'd  us.  If  vou  ask  me 
in  what  condition  of  Life  I  think  the  most  allow  d ;  I  should 
pitch  upon  that  sort  of  People  whom  King  James  was  wont 
to  call  the  Happiest  of  our  Nation,  the  Men  placed  in  the 
Countrey  by  their  Fortune  above  an  High-Constable,  and  yet 
beneath  the  trouble  of  a  Justice  of  Peace,  in  a  moderate  plenty, 
without  any  just  are;ument  for  the  desire  of  encreasing  it  \xj 
the  care  of  many  relations,  and  with  so  much  knowledge  and 
love  of  Piety  and  Philosophy  (that  is  of  the  study  or  Godi 
Laws,  and  of  his  Creatures)  as  may  afford  him  matter  enough 
never  to  be  Idle  though  without  Business ;  and  never  to  be 
Melancholy  though  without  Sin  or  Vanity. 

I  shall  conclude  this  tedious  Discourse  with  a  Praver  of 
mine  in  a  Copy  of  Latin  Verses,  of  which  I  remember  no 
other  part,  and  {pour  faire  bonne  bouche)  with  some  other  Verxs 
upon  the  same  Subjea. 

Magne  DeuSy  quod  ad  has  vita  brevis  attinet  horasy 
Da  mihiy  da  Panem  Libertatemquey  nee  u/tri 
Sollicitas  effundo  precesy  siquid  datur  ultri 
Accipiam  grains  i    si  non^  Contentus  abibo. 

For  the  few  Houres  of  Life  allotted  me. 
Give  me  (great  God)  but  Bread  and  Liberty, 
rie  beg  no  more ;   if  more  thou'rt  pleasM  to  give, 
rie  thankfully  that  Overplus  receive: 
If  bevond  this  no  more  be  freely  sent, 
rie  thank  for  this,  and  go  away  content. 

MartiaL      Lib.  2. 

yota  mi  breviter^  &c. 

WEll  then.  Sir,  you  shall  know  how  far  extend 
The  Prayers  and  Hopes  of  your  Poetick  Friend; 
He  does  not  Palaces  nor  Manors  crave. 
Would  be  no  Lord,  but  less  a  Lord  would  have. 
The  ground  he  holds,  if  he  his  own,  can  call, 
He  quarrels  not  with  Heaven  because  'tis  small: 

386 


ESSAYS,  IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Let  gay  and  toilsome  Greatness  others  please. 
He  loves  of  homely  Littleness  the  Ease. 
Can  any  Man  in  guilded  rooms  attend, 
And  his  dear  houres  in  humble  visits  spend ; 
When  in  the  fresh  and  beauteous  Fields  he  may 
With  various  healthful  pleasures  fill  the  day? 
If  there  be  Man  (ye  Gods)  I  ought  to  Hate 
Dependance  and  Attendance  be  his  Fate. 
Still  let  him  Busie  be,  and  in  a  crowd. 
And  very  much  a  Slave,  and  very  Proud  : 
Thus  he  perhaps  Pow'rRil  and  Rich  may  grow; 
No  matter,  O  ye  Gods !   that  Tie  allow. 
But  let  him  Peace  and  Freedome  never  see ; 
Let  him  not  love  this  Life,  who  loves  not  Me. 

Martial.     L.   [2.] 
Vis  fieri  Liber  ?  &c. 

WOuld  you  be  Free  ?     *Tis  your  chief  wish,  you  say. 
Come  on ;   Tie  shew  thee.  Friend,  the  certain  way, 
If  to  no  Feasts  abroad  thou  lov'st  to  go. 
Whilst  bounteous  God  does  Bread  at  home  bestow. 
If  thou  the  goodness  of  thy  Cloaths  dost  prize 
By  thine  own  Use,  and  not  by  others  Eyes. 

If  onely  safe  from  Weathers)  thou  can'st  dwell, 

[n]  a  small  House,  but  a  convenient  Shell, 
If  thou  without  a  Sigh,  or  Golden  wish. 
Canst  look  upon  thv  Beechen  Bowl,  and  Dish ; 
If  in  thy  Mind  such  power  and  greatness  be. 
The  Persian  King's  a  Slave  compar'd  with  Thee. 

Mart.     L.  2. 

Quod  te  nomine?  &c. 

THat  I  do  you  with  himible  Bowes  no  more, 
And  danger  of  my  naked  Head  adore. 
That  I  who  Lord  and  Master  cry'd  erewhile. 
Salute  you  in  a  new  and  diflerent  Stile, 

BB  2  387 


\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Bv  your  own  Name,  a  scandal  to  jrou  now. 

Think  not  that  I  forget  my  self  or  you : 

Bv  loss  of  all  things  by  all  others  sou^t 

This  Freedome,  and  the  Freemans  Hat  is  bought* 

A  Lord  and  Master  no  man  wants  but  He 

Who  o're  Himself  has  no  Autoritie. 

Who  does  for  Honours  and  for  Riches  strive, 

And  Follies,  without  which  Lords  cannot  Live. 

If  thou  from  Fortune  dost  no  Servant  crave. 

Believe  it,  thou  no  Master  need*st  to  have. 

i^Odc. 

Upon  Liberty. 
I. 

FReedome  with  Virtue  takes  her  seat. 
Her  proper  place,  her  onely  Scene, 
Is  in  the  Golden  Mean, 

She  lives  not  with  the  Poor,  nor  with  the  Great. 

The  Wings  of  those  Necessity  has  dipt. 

And  they*r  in  Fortunes  Bridewell  whipt, 
To  the  laborious  task  of  Bread  \ 

These  are  bv  various  Tyrants  Captive  lead. 

Now  wild  Ambition  with  imperious  force 

Rides,  raines,  and  spurs  them  like  th'  unruly  Horse. 
And  servile  Avarice  yoakes  them  now 
Like  toilsome  Oxen  to  the  Plow. 

And  sometimes  Lust,  like  the  Misguiding  Light, 

Drawes  them  through  all  the  Labyrinths  of  Night. 

If  any  Few  among  the  Great  there  be 

From  these  insulting  Passions  free. 
Yet  we  ev'n  those  too  fetter'd  see 

By  Custom,  Business,  Crowds,  and  formal  Decency. 

And  whercso'ere  they  stay,  and  whcreso'ere  they  go, 
Impertinencies  roimd  them  flow : 
These  are  the  small  uneasie  thines 
Which  about  Greatness  still  are  found. 
And  rather  it  Molest  then  Wound : 

388 


ESSAYS,  IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Like  Gnats  which  too  much  heat  of  summer  brings  i 
But  Cares  do  swarm  there  too,  and  those  have  stings: 
As  when  the  Honey  does  too  open  lie, 

A  thousand  Wasps  about  it  fly : 
Nor  will  the  Master  ev'n  to  share  admit ; 
The  Master  stands  aloof,  and  dares  not  Tast  of  it. 

2. 

Tis  Morning ;   well ;   I  fain  would  ytt  sleep  on ; 

You  cannot  now;   you  must  be  gone 

To  Court,  or  to  the  noisy  Hall: 
Besides,  the  Rooms  without  are  crowded  all; 

The  st[r]eam  of  Business  does  begin, 
And  a  Spring-Tide  of  Clients  is  come  in. 
Ah  cruel  Guards,  which  this  poor  Prisoner  keep  ! 

Will  they  not  sufier  him  to  sleep? 
Make  an  Escape;  out  at  the  Postern  flee. 
And  get  some  blessed  Houres  of  Libertie, 
With  a  few  Friends,  and  a  few  Dishes  dine. 

And  much  of  Mirth  and  moderate  Wine. 
To  thy  bent  Mind  some  relaxation  give. 
And  steal  one  dav  out  of  thy  Life  to  Live. 
Oh  happy  man  (he  cries)  to  whom  kind  Heaven 

Has  such  a  Fr^ome  alwayes  given ! 
Why,  mighty  Madman,  what  should  hinder  thee 

From  being  every  day  as  Free? 


In  all  the  Freeborn  Nations  of  the  Air, 

Never  did  Bird  a  spirit  so  mean  and  sordid  bear. 

As  to  exchange  his  Native  Liberty 

Of  soaring  bddUr  up  into  the  sky. 

His  Liberty  to  ding,  to  Perch,  or  Fly, 

When,  and  whereVer  he  thought  good. 
And  all  his  innocent  pleasures  of  the  Wood, 
For  a  more  plentiful  or  constant  Food. 

Nor  ever  did  Ambitious  rs^ 

Make  him  into  a  painted  Cage ; 
Or  the  false  Forest  of  a  well-hung  Room, 

For  Honour  and  Preferment  come. 


•s^ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Now,  Blessings  on  ye  all,  ye  Heroick  Race, 

Who  keep  their  Primitive  powers  and  rights  so  weU 

Though  Men  and  Angels  fell. 
Of  all  Material  Lives  the  highest  place, 

To  you  is  justly  given ; 

And  wayes  and  walkes  the  neerest  Heaven. 
Whilst  wretched  we,  yet  vain  and  proud,  think  fit 

To  boast,  Tnat  we  look  up  to  it. 
Even  to  the  Universal  Tyrant  Love, 

You  Homage  pay  but  once  a  year : 
None  so  degenerous  and  unbirdly  prove. 

As  his  perpetual  yoke  to  bear. 
None  but  a  few  unhappy  Houshold  Foul, 

Whom  human  Lordship  does  controul ; 

Who  from  their  birth  corrupted  were 
By  Bondage,  and  by  mans  Example  here. 

4- 

He's  no  small  Prince  who  every  day 
Thus  to  himself  can  say. 

Now  will  I  sleep,  now  eat,  now  sit,  now  walk. 

Now  meditate  alone,  now  with  Acquaintance  talk. 

This  I  will  do,  here  I  will  stay, 

Or  if  my  Fancy  call  me  away, 

My  Man  and  I  will  presently  go  ride ; 

(For  we  before  have  nothing  to  provide. 

Nor  after  are  to  render  an  account) 

To  Dover^  Barwick^  or  the  Cornish  Moimt. 
If  thou  but  a  short  journey  take. 
As  if  thy  last  thou  wert  to  make. 

Business  must  be  dispatch'd  e're  thou  canst  part. 
Nor  canst  thou  stirr  unless  there  be 
A  hundred  Horse  and  Men  to  wait  on  thee, 
And  many  a  Mule,  and  many  a  Cart; 
What  an  [unwieldy]  man  thou  art  ? 
The  Rhodian  Colossus  so 
A  Journey  too  might  go. 

5. 
Where  Honour  or  where  Conscience  does  not  bind 
No  other  Law  shall  shackle  me. 
Slave  to  my  self  I  will  not  be, 

390 


ESSAYS,  IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Nor  shall  my  future  Actions  be  confinM 

By  my  own  present  Mind. 
Who  by  Resolves  and  Vows  engaged  does  stand 

For  days  that  yet  belong  to  Fate, 
Does  like  an  unthrift  Mor[t]gage  his  Estate 

Before  it  falls  into  his  Hand, 

The  Bondman  of  the  Cloister  so 
All  that  he  does  receive  does  always  owe. 
And  still  as  Time  comes  in,  it  goes  away 

Not  to  Enjoy,  but  Debts  to  pay. 
Unhappy  Slave,  and  Pupil  to  a  Bell ! 
Which  his  hours  work  as  well  as  hours  does  tell ! 
Unhappy  till  the  Ust,  the  kind  releasing  Knell. 

If  Life  should  a  well-order'd  Poem  be 

(In  which  he  only  hits  the  white 
Who  joyns  true  Profit  witn  the  best  Delight) 
The  more  Heroique  strain  let  others  take,  y. 

Mine  the  Pindarique  way  I'le  make.    ^ 
The  Matter  shall  be  Grave,  the  Numbers  loose  and  free.    - 
It  shall  not  keep  one  setled  pace  of  Time,   ^ 
In  the  same  Tune  it  shall  not  always  Chime, 
Nor  shall  each  day  just  to  his  Neighbour  Rhime,  ?  i*  ^ 

A  thousand  Liberties  it  shall  dispense,  A^  a 

And  yet  shall  mannage  all  without  offence  £)       x 
Or  to  the  sweetness  of  the  Sound,  or  greatness  of  the  Senc^ 
Nor  shaU  it  never  from  one  Subject  start, 

Nor  seek  Transitions  to  depart. 
Nor  its  set  way  o*re  Stiles  and  Bridges  make. 

Nor  thorough  Lanes  a  Compass  take 
As  if  it  fear'd  some  trespass  to  commit. 

When  the  wide  Air's  a  Road  for  it. 
So  the  Imperial  Eagle  does  not  stay 

Till  the  whole  Carkass  he  devour 

That's  faUen  into  its  power. 
As  if  his  generous  Hunger  understood 
That  he  can  never  want  plenty  of  Food, 

He  only  sucks  the  tastful  Blood. 
And  to  fresh  Game  flies  cheerfully  away; 
To  Kites  and  meaner  Birds  he  leaves  the  mangled  Prey. 


\ 


N 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


[2.]      Of  Solitude. 

Unquam  minus  soluSj  quam  cum  solusj  is  now  become  a 
very  vulgar  saying.  JEvery  Man  and  almost  every  Boy 
for  these  seventeen  hundred  years,  has  had  it  in  his  mouth.  But 
it  was  at  first  spoken  by  the  Excellent  Scipio^  who  was  without 
question  a  most  Eloquent  and  Witty  person,  as  well  as  the 
most  Wise,  most  Worthy,  most  Happy,  and  the  Greatest  of 
all  Mankind.  His  meaning  no  doubt  was  this,  That  he  found 
more  satisfadtion  to  his  mind,  and  more  improvement  of  it  by 
Solitude  then  by  Company,  and  to  shew  that  he  spoke  not 
this  loosly  or  out  of  vanity,  after  he  had  made  R§mi^  Mistriss 
of  almost  the  whole  World,  he  retired  himself  from  it  by  a 
voluntary  exile,  and  at  a  private  house  in  the  middle  of  a  wood 
E/isi.  86.  neer  Linternumy  passed  the  remainder  of  his  Glorious  life  no 
less  Gloriously.  This  House  Seneca  went  to  see  so  long  after 
with  great  veneration,  and  among  other  things  describes  his 
Baths  to  have  been  of  so  mean  a  structure,  that  now,  sajs  he, 
the  basest  of  the  people  would  despise  them,  and  cry  out,  poor 
Scipio  understood  not  how  to  live.  What  an  Authority  is  here 
for  the  credit  of  Retreat  ?  and  happy  had  it  been  for  Hannibal^ 
if  Adversity  could  have  taught  him  as  much  Wisdom  as  was 
learnt  by  Scipio  from  the  highest  prosperities.  This  would  be 
no  wonder  if  it  were  as  truly  as  it  is  colourably  and  wittily 
said  by  Monsieur  de  Montagne.  That  Ambition  it  self  might 
teach  us  to  love  Solitude ;  there's  nothing  does  so  much  hate 
to  have  Companions.  'Tis  true,  it  loves  to  have  its  Elbows 
free,  it  detests  to  have  Company  on  either  side,  but  it  delights 
above  all  Things  in  a  Train  behind,  I,  and  Ushers  too  before 
it.  But  the  greatest  part  of  men  are  so  far  fix>m  the  opinion 
of  that  noble  Romany  that  if  they  chance  at  any  time  to  be 
without  company,  they'r  like  a  becalmed  Ship,  they  never 
move  but  by  the  wind  of  other  mens  breath,  and  have  no  Oan 
of  their  own  to  steer  withal.  It  is  very  fantastical  and  contra- 
didlory  in  humane  Nature,  that  Men  should  love  themselves 
above  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  yet  never  endure  to  be 
with  themselves.  When  they  are  in  love  with  a  Mistriss, 
all  other  persons  are  importunate  and  burdensome  to  them. 
Tecum  vivere  amemy  tecum  obeam  LubenSy  They  would  live  and 
dye  with  her  alone. 

392 


I 

I 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

Sic  tga  stcretii  possum  heni  vivtrt  s'lhis 
Qui  nulla  humona  tit  via  trita  ptdi, 
fu  mihi  curarum  requies^  tu  naSit  vtl  atr& 
LiiittHf  i^  in  so/is  tu   mihi  turba  lotis. 
With  thee  for  ever  I   in  woods  could   rest, 
Where  never  humane  foot  the  ground  has  prest, 
Thou  rroin  al!  shades  the  darkness  canst  exclude, 
And  from  a  Desart  banish  Solitude. 


And  yet  our  Dear  Self  is  so  wearisome  lo  us,  that  we  can 
scarcely  support  its  conversation  for  an  hour  together.  This 
is  such  an  odd  temper  of  mind  as  Catullus  expresses  towards 
one  of  his  Mistresses,  whom  we  may  suppose  to  have  been  of 
a  very  unsociable  humour. 

Odi  Stf   //mo,  quanim   id  faciam   raliane  requiris? 
Neldo,   sed  fieri  ttnliv,   &   txcrudor. 

I  Hate,  and  yet  I  Love  thee  to[o]  ; 

How  can  that  be  ?     I  know  not  how  ; 

Only  that  so  it  is  I  know. 

And  feel  with  Torment  that  'tis  so. 
It  is  a  deplorable  condition,  this,  and  drives  a  man  sometimes 
to  pittiful  shifts  in  seeking  how  to  avoid  Himself, 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  neither  he  who  is  a  Fop 
in  the  world,  is  a  fit  man  to  be  alone  ;  nor  he  who  has  set 
his  heart  much  upon  the  world,  though  he  have  never  so  much 
understanding;  so  that  Solitude  can  be  well  fitted  and  set  right, 
but  upon  a  very  few  persons.  They  must  have  enough  know- 
ledge of  the  World  to  sec  the  vanity  of  it,  and  enough  Virtue 
to  despise  all  Vanity  ;  if  the  Mind  be  possest  with  any  Lust 
or  Passions,  a  man  had  better  be  in  a  Faire,  then  in  a  Wood 
alone.  They  may  like  petty  Thieves  cheat  us  perhaps,  and 
pick  our  pockets  in  the  midst  of  company,  but  like  Robbers 
they  use  to  strip  and  bind,  or  murder  us  when  they  catch  us 
alone.  This  is  but  to  retreat  from  Men,  and  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Devils.  'Tis  like  the  punishment  of  Parricides  among 
the  Romans^  to  be  sow'd  into  a  B^  with  an  Ape,  a  Dog,  and 
a  Serpent.  The  first  work  therefore  that  a  man  must  do  to 
make  himself  capable  of  the  good  of  Solitude,  is,  the  very 
Eradication  of  all  Lusts,  (or  how  is  it  possible  for  a  Man  to 

393 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

enjoy  himsdf  while  his  Afie£tion$  are  tyed  to  things  without 
Himself?  In  the  second  place,  he  must  learn  the  Art  and 
get  the  Habit  of  Thinking ;  for  this  too,  no  less  than  well 
speaking,  depends  upon  much  practice,  and  Cogitation  is  the 
thing  which  distinguishes  the  Solitude  of  a  God  from  a  wild 
Beast.  Now  because  the  soul  of  Man  is  not  bv  its  own  Nature 
or  observation  furnisht  with  sufficient  Materials  to  work  upon ; 
it  is  necessary  for  it  to  have  continual  recourse  to  Learning  and 
Books  for  fresh  supplies,  so  that  the  solitary  Life  will  grow 
indigent,  and  be  reaidv  to  starve  without  them ;  but  if  once  we 
be  throughly  engageo  in  the  Love  of  Letters,  instead  of  being 
wearied  with  the  length  of  any  day,  we  shidl  only  complain 
of  the  shortness  of  our  whole  Life. 

O  vita^  stulto  iongOj  sapienti  brevis! 

O  Life,  long  to  the  Fool,  short  to  the  Wise  ! 

The  first  Minister  of  State  has  not  so  much  business  in 
publique,  as  a  wise  man  has  in  private ;  if  the  one  have  little 
feasure  to  be  alone,  the  other  has  less  leasure  to  be  in  company ; 
the  one  has  but  part  of  the  afiairs  of  one  Nation,  the  other 
all  the  works  of  God  and  Nature  under  his  consideration. 
There  is  no  saying  shocks  me  so  much  as  that  which  I  hear 
very  often,  That  a  man  does  not  know  how  to  pass  his  Time. 
'T would  have  been  but  ill  spoken  by  Methusalem  in  the  Nine 
hundred  sixty  ninth  year  of  his  Life,  so  far  it  is  from  us,  who 
have  not  time  enough  to  attain  to  the  utmost  perfection  of  any 
part  of  any  Science,  to  have  cause  to  complain  that  we  are 
forced  to  be  idle  for  want  of  work.  But  this  you*l  say  is  work 
only  for  the  Learned,  others  are  not  capable  either  of  the 
employments  or  divertisements  that  arrive  from  Letters ;  I  know 
they  are  not ;  and  therefore  cannot  much  recommend  Solitude 
to  a  man  totally  illiterate.  But  if  any  man  be  so  unlearned 
as  to  want  entertainment  of  the  little  Intervals  of  accidental 
Solitude,  which  frequently  occurr  in  almost  all  conditions  (except 
the  very  meanest  of  the  people,  who  have  business  enough  in 
the  necessary  provisions  for  Life)  it  is  truly  a  great  shame  both 
to  his  Parents  and  Himself,  for  a  very  small  portion  of  any 
Ingenious  Art  will  stop  up  all  those  gaps  of  our  Time,  either 
Musique,  or  Painting,  or  Designing,  or  Chymistry,  or  History, 
or  Gardening,  or  twenty  other  things  will  do  it  usefidly  and 

394 


ESSAYS,  IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

pleasandy ;  and  if  he  happen  to  set  his  afieftions  upon  Poetry 
(which  I  do  not  advise  him  too  immoderately)  that  will  over  do 
it ;  no  wood  will  be  thick  enough  to  hide  him  from  the  impor- 
timities  of  company  or  business,  which  would  abstract  him  A-om 
his  Beloved. 

O  quis  nu  gelidis  sub  montibus  Mmi  ^^ 

Sistatj  far  ingenti  ramorum  protegat  umbrd? 

I. 

Hail,  old  Patrician  Trees,  so  great  and  good ! 

Hail  ye  PUbeian  under  wood  ! 

Where  the  Poetique  Birds  rejoyce, 
And  for  their  quiet  Nests  and  plentious  Food, 

Pay  with  their  grateful  voice. 

2. 

Hail,  the  poor  Muses  richest  Mannor  Seat ! 

Ye  Countrey  Houses  and  Retreat, 

Which  all  the  happy  Gods  so  Love, 
That  for  you  oft  they  quit  their  Bright  and  Great 

Metropolis  above. 

3- 
Here  Nature  does  a  House  for  me  ere^ 

Nature  the  wisest  Architect, 

Who  those  fond  Artists  does  despise 
That  can  the  fair  and  living  Trees  negle£t; 

Yet  the  Dead  Timber  prize. 

4. 

Here  let  me  careless  and  imthoughtfiil  lying. 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 
With  all  their  wanton  Boughs  dispute, 

And  the  more  timefiil  Birds  to  both  replying 
Nor  be  my  self  too  Mute. 

5. 
A  Silver  stream  shall  roul  his  waters  neer. 

Guilt  with  the  Sun-beams  here  and  there 

On  whose  enamel'd  Bank  Til  walk. 
And  see  how  prettily  they  Smile,  and  hear 

How  prettily  they  Talk. 

395 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

6. 

Ah  wretched,  and  too  Solitary  Hee 

Who  loves  not  his  own  Company  1 
He*l  feel  the  weight  oPt  many  a  day 

Unless  he  call  in  Sin  or  Vanity 
To  help  to  bear*t  away. 

7- 
Oh  Solitude,  first  state  of  Human-kind ! 

Which  blest  remained  till  man  did  find 

Even  his  own  helpers  Company. 
As  soon  as  two  (alas !)  together  joyn'd, 

The  Serpent  nude  up  Three. 

8. 

Though  God  himself,  through  coimtless  Ages  Thee 

His  sole  Companion  chose  to  be. 

Thee,  Sacred  Solitude  alone. 
Before  the  Branchy  head  of  Numbers  Tree 

Sprang  from  the  Trunk  of  One. 

9- 

Thou  (though  men  think  thine  an  una^ive  part) 
Dost  break  and  tame  th'unruly  heart. 
Which  else  would  know  no  setled  pace. 

Making  it  move,  well  mannag'd  by  thy  Art, 
AVith  Swiftness  and  with  Cjrace. 

10. 

Thou  the  faint  beams  of  Reasons  scattered  Light, 

Dost  like  a  Burning-glass  unite. 

Dost  multiply  the  feeble  Heat, 
And  fortifie  the  strength,  till  thou  dost  bright 

And  noble  Fires  beget. 

II. 

Whilst  this  hard  Truth  I  teach,  methinks,  I  see 

The  Monster  London  laush  at  me,  | 

I  should  at  thee  too,  foolish  City,  j 

If  it  were  fit  to  laugh  at  Misery,  I 

But  thy  Estate  I  pity. 


396 


ESSAYS,   IN    VERSE    AND    PROSE 


Let  bm  thy  wicked  men  from  out  thee  go. 

And  all  the  Fools  that  crowd  thefe]  so, 
Even  thou  who  dost  thy  Millions  boast, 

A  Village  less  then  Islington  wilt  grow, 
A  Solitude  almost. 


W 


3.      Of  obscurity. 

J  AM  ittqtu  Divilihus  conlingunt  gaudia  selis^  tftr.EfU 

Nic  vixil  malt,  qui  natus  mariemqut  FtfiUit.  '' 

G»d  made  net  pieasures  only  far  the  Rich, 
Nor  have  those  men  without  their  share  tea  liv'J, 
ffho  both  in  Life  and  Death  the  tuorld  deceived. 
This  seems  a  strange   Sentence   thus  literally  translated,  and 
looks  as  if  it  were  in  vindication  of  the  men  of  business  (for  who 
else  can  Deceive  the  world  ?)  whereas  it  is  in  commendation  of 
those  who  live  and  dye  so  obscurely,  that  the  world  takes  no 
notice  of  them.     This  Horace  calls  deceiving  the  world,  and  in 
another  place  uses  the  same  phrase. 

Secretum  iter  i^  FalUntis  semila  vita,  ^.  it. 

The  itcrtt  tracks  of  the   Deceiving  Life. 
■ft  is  very  elegant  in  Latine,  but  our  English  word  will  hardly 
bear  up  to  that  sence,  and  therefore  Mr.  Brtom  translates  it 
very  well. 

Or  from  a  Life,  lid  at  it  were  by  stealth. 
Yet  we  say  in  our  Language,  a  thing  deceives  our  sight,  when 
it  posses  before  us  unperceived,  and  we  may  say  wdl  enough 
^out  of  the  same  Authour, 

^k      Sttnttimii  with  sleep,  tomtimes  with  wine  we  strive, 
^H       Tbt  carts  of  Life  and  troubles  to  Deceive. 
^^ut  that  is  not  to  deceive  the  world,  but  to  deceive  our  selves,  ^"jf^ 
as  Qmntilian  saies,  yitam  fallert,  Ta  draw  on  still,  and  amuse,   ' 
and  deceive  our  Life,  till  it  be  advanced  insensibly  to  the  btal 
Period,  and  fall  into  that  Pit  which  Nature  hath  prepared  for  it. 
LThe  meaning  of  all  this  is  no  more  then  that  most  vulgar 

397 


an< 

I 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

saving,  Bine  qui  latuitj  bene  vixitj  He  has  lived  well,  who  has 
lain  well  hidden.  Which  if  it  be  a  truth,  the  world  (I*le  swear) 
is  sufficiently  deceived :  For  my  part,  I  think  it  is,  and  that  the 

fleasantest  condition  of  Life,  is  in  Incognito.  What  a  brave 
Vivilege  is  it  to  be  free  from  all  Contentions,  from  all  £nvvjn| 
or  being  Envyed,  from  recieving  and  from  paying  all  kind 
of  Ceremonies  ?  It  is  in  my  mind,  a  very  delightful  pastime^ 
for  two  good  and  agreeable  friends  to  travail  up  and  down 
.  together,  m  places  where  they  are  by  no  body  known,  nor  know 
any  body.  It  was  the  case  of  Mneas  and  his  AcbattSj  when 
they  waUct  invisibly  about  the  fields  and  streets  of  Carthage^ 
Venus  her  self 

yirg,  X.  A  vail  of  thickmd  Air  around  them  cast^ 

^  That  none  might  knoWj  or  see  them  as  tbtj  past. 

The  common  story  of  Demosthenes^ s  confession  that  he  had  taken 
great  pleasure  in  hearing  of  a  Tanker- woman  say  as  he  past; 
This  is  that  Demosthenes^  is  wonderful  ridiculous  from  so  solid 
an  Orator.  I  my  self  have  often  met  with  that  temptation  to 
vanity  (if  it  were  any)  but  am  so  far  from  finding  it  any 
pleasure,  that  it  only  makes  me  run  faster  from  the  place,  till  I 
get,  as  it  were  out  of  sight-shot.  Democritus  relates,  and  in 
such  a  manner,  as  if  he  gloried  in  the  good  fortune  and  com- 
modity of  it,  that  when  he  came  to  Athens  no  body  there  did 
so  much  as  take  notice  of  him ;  and  Epicurus  lived  there  very 
well,  that  is,  Lay  hid  many  years  in  his  Gardens,  so  famous 
since  that  time,  with  his  friend  Metrodorus :  after  whose  death, 
making  in  one  of  his  letters  a  kind  commemoration  of  the 
happiness  which  they  two  had  injoyed  together,  he  adds  at  last, 
that  he  thought  it  no  disparagement  to  those  great  felicities  of 
their  life,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  most  talk'd-of  and  Talking 
Country  in  the  world,  they  had  lived  so  long,  not  only  without 
Fame,  but  almost  without  being  heard  of.  And  yet  within 
a  very  few  years  afterward,  there  were  no  two  Names  of  men 
more  known  or  more  generally  celebrated.  If  we  engage  into 
a  large  Acquaintance  and  various  familiarities,  we  set  open  our 
gates  to  the  Invaders  of  most  of  our  time:  we  expose  our  life  to 
a  Quotidian  Ague  of  frigid  impertinencies,  which  would  make  a 
wise  man  tremble  to  think  of.  Now,  as  for  beinft  known 
much  by  sight,  and   pointed  at,   I  cannot   comprehend  the 

398 


ESSAYS,   IN    VERSE    AND    PROSE 


bon 


honour  that  lies  in  that :  Whatsoever  it  he,  every  Mountebank 
it  more  then  the  best  Doctor,  and  the  Hangman  more  then 
Lord  Chief  Justice  of  a  City.  Every  creature  has  it  both 
Nature  and  Art  if  it  be  any  ways  extraordinary.  It  was  as 
often  said,  This  is  that  Bacephalm,  or,  This  is  that  Imitaius^ 
when  they  were  led  prancing  through  the  streets,  as,  this  is  that 
AUxander,  or  this  is  that  Demitiati ;  and  truly  for  the  latter,  I 
take  Incitatus  to  have  bin  a  much  more  Honourable  Beast  then 
his  Master,  and  more  deserving  the  Consulship,  then  he  the 
Empire.  I  love  and  commend  a  true  good  Fame,  because  it  is 
the  shadow  of  Virtue,  not  that  it  doth  any  good  to  the  Body 
which  it  accompanies,  but  'tis  an  efficacious  shadow,  and  like 
that  of  St,  Ptitr  cures  the  Diseases  of  others.  The  best  kinde 
of  Glory,  no  doubt,  is  that  which  is  refieifted  from  Honesty, 
such  as  was  the  Glory  of  Cata  and  ArhtideSy  but  it  was  harmful 
10  them  both,  and  is  seldom  beneficial  to  any  man  whilst  he 
lives,  what  it  is  to  him  after  his  death,  I  cannot  say,  because,  I 
love  not  Pbibisphy  merely  notional  and  conjeilura!,  and  no 
man  who  has  made  the  Experiment  has  been  so  kind  as  to 
come  back  to  inform  us.  Upon  the  whole  matter,  I  account  a 
person  who  has  a  moderate  Mindc  and  Fortune,  and  lives  in 
the  conversation  of  two  or  three  agreeable  friends,  with  little 
commerce  in  the  world  besides,  who  is  esteemed  well  enough 
by  his  few  neighbours  that  know  him,  and  is  truly  irreproach- 
able by  any  body,  and  so  after  a  healthful  quiet  life,  before  the 
great  inconveniences  of  old  age,  goes  more  silently  out  of  it 
then  he  came  in,  (for  I  would  not  have  him  so  much  as  Cry  in 
the  Exit).  This  Innocent  Deceiver  of  the  world,  as  Harace 
calls  him,  this  Muta  ptnona,  I  take  to  have  been  more  happy 
in  bis  Part,  then  the  greatest  Aftors  that  fill  the  Stage  with 
show  and  noise,  nay,  even  then  Augustui  himself,  who  askt  with 
his  last  breath,  Whether  he  had  not  played  his  Fartt  very  well. 

Seneca,  ex  T6yeste, 

Aei.  2.   Cbor. 

Sfel  qukunque  volei^  pouns 

AitU  culmine  lubrico^  &c. 

Upon  the  slippery  tops  of  bumane  State, 
The  guilded  Pinnacles  of  Fate, 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Let  Others  proudly  stand,  and  for  a  while 

The  giddy  danger  to  beeuile. 
With  Joy,  and  with  disdain  Took  down  on  all, 

Till  their  Heads  turn,  and  down  they  fidL 
Me,  O  ye  Gods,  on  Earth,  or  else  so  near 

That  I  no  Fall  to  Earth  may  fear, 
And,  O  ye  gods,  at  a  eood  distance  seat 

From  the  long  Ruuies  of  the  Great. 
Here  wrapt  in  th'  Arms  of  Quiet  let  me  I7; 
Quiet,  Companion  of  Obscurity. 
Here  let  my  Life,  with  as  much  silence  slide^ 

As  Time  that  measures  it  does  glide. 
Nor  let  the  Breath  of  Infamy  or  Fame, 
From  town  to  town  Eccho  about  my  Name. 
Nor  let  my  homely  Death  embroidered  be 

With  Scutcheon  or  with  El^e. 

An  old  Plibean  let  me  Dv, 
Alas,  all  then  are  such  as  well  as  L 

To  him,  alas,  to  him,  I  fear. 
The  face  of  Death  will  terrible  appear: 
Who  in  his  life  flattering  his  senceless  pride 
By  being  known  to  all  the  world  beside. 
Does  not  himself,  when  he  is  Dying  know 
Nor  what  he  is,  nor  Whither  hee*s  to  ga 


4.     Of  Agriculture. 

THE  first  wish  of  Virgil  (as  you  will  find  anon  by  hit 
Verses)  was  to  be  a  good  Philosopher ;  the  second,  a  good  J 
Husbandman ;  and  God  (whom  he  seem'd  to  understand  better 
then  most  of  the  most  learned  Heathens)  dealt  with  him  just 
as  he  did  with  Solomon ;  because  he  prayed  for  wisdom  in  the 
first  place,  he  added  all  things  else  whicn  were  subordinately  to 
be  desir'd.  He  made  him  one  of  the  best  Philosophers,  and 
best  Husbandmen,  and  to  adorn  and  conmiunicate  both  those 
faculties,  the  best  Poet :  He  made  him  besides  all  this  a  rich 
man,  and  a  man  who  desired  to  be  no  richer.  O  F$rtunatw 
nimiuniy  V  bona  qui  sua  navit :  To  be  a  Husbandman,  is  but  a 

400 


ESSAYS,   IN    VERSE    AND    PROSE 

retreat  Troin  the  City ;  to  be  a  Philosopher,  from  the  world,  or 
rather,  a  Retreat  from  the  world,  as  it  is  mans;  into  the  world, 
as  it  is  Gods.  But  since  Nature  denies  to  most  men  the 
capacity  or  appetite,  and  Fortune  allows  but  to  a  very  few  the 
opportunities  or  possibility  of  applying  themselves  wholy  to 
Philosophy,  the  best  mixture  of  humane  affairs  that  we  can 
malce,  are  the  employments  of  a  Country  life.  It  is,  as 
CalumeHa  calls  it.  Res  si'ie  duhitaliontt  praxima,  (^  quasi  Can- 
sanguinra  Sapitntia,  The  nearest  Neighbour,  or  rather  next  in  Uf.i a. 
Kindred  to  Philosophy.  Farra  saycs,  the  Principles  of  it  are 
the  same  which  Enmus  made  to  be  the  Principles  of  all  Nature: 
Earth,  Water,  Air,  and  the  Sun.  It  does  certainly  comprehend 
more  parts  of  Philosophy  then  any  one  Profession,  Art  or  Science 
in  the  world  besides:  and  therefore  Cuera  saies,  The  pleasures 
of  a  Husbandman,  Mihi  ad  iapienth  vilam  prox'tme  videntur 
o<ctdtrt.  Come  very  nigh  to  those  of  a  Philosopher.  There  is  Otumet. 
no  other  sort  of  life  that  affords  so  many  branches  of  praise  to  a 
Panegyrist :  The  Utility  of  it  to  a  mans  self:  The  Usefulness, 
or  rather  Necessity  of  it  to  all  the  rest  of  Mankind:  The 
Innocence,  the  Pleasure,  the  Antiquity,  the  Dignity,  The 
Utility  (I  mean  plainly  the  Lucre  of  it)  is  not  so  great  now  in 
our  Nation  as  arises  from  Merchandise  and  the  trading  of  the 
City,  from  whence  many  of  the  best  Estates  and  chief  Honours 
of  the  Kingdom  are  derived :  we  have  no  men  now  fetcht  from 
the  Plow  to  be  made  Lords,  as  they  were  in  Reme  to  be  made 
Consuls  and  Dictators,  the  reason  of  which  I  conceive  to  be 
from  an  evil  Custom,  now  grown  as  strong  among  us,  as  if  it 
were  a  Law,  which  is,  that  no  men  put  their  Children  to  be 
bred  up  Apprentices  in  Agriculture,  as  in  other  Trades,  but 
such  who  are  so  poor,  that  when  they  come  to  be  men,  they 
have  not  wherewithall  to  set  up  in  it,  and  so  can  only  Farm 
some  small  parcel  of  ground,  the  Rent  of  which  devours  all  but 
the  bare  Subsistence  of  the  Tenant:  Whilst  they  who  are  Pro- 
prietors of  the  Land,  are  either  too  proud,  or,  for  waiit  of  that 
Icind  of  Education,  too  ignorant  to  improve  their  Estates, 
though  the  means  of  doing  it  be  as  casie  and  certain  in  this  as 
in  any  other  track  of  Commerce :  If  there  were  alwaies  two  or 
three  thousand  youths,  for  seven  or  eight  years  bound  to  this 
Profession,  that  they  might  learn  ihe  whole  Art  of  it,  and 
afterwards  be  enabled  to  be  Masters  in  it,  by  a  moderate  stock : 
c.  ti.  cc  401 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

I  cannot  doubt  but  that  we  should  tee  as  many  Alderment 
Estates  made  in  the  Country,  as  now  we  do  out  of  all  kind  of 
Merchandizing  in  the  City.     There  are  as  many  waycs  to  be 
Rich,  and  which  is  better,  there  is  no  Possibility  to  be  poor, 
without  such  negligence  as  can  neither  have  excuse  nor  rityj 
for  a  little  ground  will  without  question  feed  a  little  family,  and 
the   supcHluities   of  Life  (which   are  now  in   some  cases  by 
custome  made  almost  necessary)  must  be  supplyed  out  of  tbe 
superabundance  of  Art  and  Industry,  or  contemned  by  at  great 
a  Degree  of  Philosophy.     As  for  the  Necessity  of  this  Art,  it 
is  evident  enough,  since  this  can  live  without  all  others,  and  no 
one  other  without  this.     This  is  like  Speech,  without  which 
the  Society  of  men  cannot  be  preserved ;  the  othen  like  Figuiti 
and  Tropes  of  Speech  which  serve  only  to  adorn  iL     Many 
Nations  have  lived,  and  some  do  still,  without  any  Art  but  this; 
not  so  Elegantly,  I  confess,  but  still  they  Live,  and  almost  ill 
the  other  Arts  which  are  here  pradiscd,  are  beholding  to  this 
for  most  of  their  Materials.     The  Innocence  of  this  Life  is  the 
next  thing  for  which  I  commend  it,  and  if  Husbandmen  pre- 
serve not  that,  they  arc  much  to  blame,  for  no  men  are  so  firee 
from  the  TemptatioJis  of  Iniquity.     They  live  by  what  they 
can  get  by  Industry  from  the  Earth,  and  others  by  what  th^ 
can  catch  by  Craft  from  men.     They  live  upon  an  Estate 
given  them  by  their  Mother,  and  others  upon  an  Estate  cheated 
from  their  Brethren.     They  live  like  Sheep  and  Kinc,  by  tbe 
allowances  of  Nature,  and  others  like  Wolves  and  Foxes  by  the 
acquisitions  of  Rapine.     And,  I  hope,  I  may  affirm  (without 
any  oSencc  to  the  Great}  that  Sheep  and  Kine  are  very  lucfiil, 
and  that  Wolves  and  Foxes  are  pernicious  creatures.     Thcf 
are  without  dispute  of  all  men  the  most  quiet  and  least  apt  to 
be  inflamed  to  the  distaurbance  of  the  Common-wealth:  their 
manner  of  Life  inclines  them,  and  Interest  binds  them  to  lore 
Peace :  In  our  late  mad  and  miserable  Civil  Wars,  all  other 
Trades,  even  to  the  meanest,  set  forth  whole  Troopes,  and 
raised  up  some  great  Commanders,  who  became  famous  ud 
mighty   for   the   mischiefs   they   had   done:    But,    I    do  not 
remember   the  Name  of  any  one  Husbandman  who  had  so 
considerable  a  share  in  the  twenty  years  ruine  of  his  Country, 
as  to  deserve  tbe  Curses  of  his  Country-men :    And  if  greit 
delights  be  joyn'd  with  so  much  Innocence^  I  think  it  is  ill  done 
40a 


ESSAYS,  IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

r  men  not  to  take  them  here  where  they  sre  so  tame,  and 
ready  at  hand,  rather  then  hunt  for  them  in  Courts  and  Cities, 
where  they  arc  so  wild,  and  the  chase  so  troublesome  and 
dangerous. 

We  are  here  among  the  vast  and  noble  Scenes  of  Nature; 
we  are  there  among  the  pitiful  shifts  of  Policy :  We  walk  here 
in  the  light  and  open  wayes  of  the  Divine  Bounty;  we  grope 
there  in  the  dark  and  confused  Labyrinths  of  Human  Malice: 
Our  Senses  are  here  feasted  with  the  clear  and  genuine  taste  of 
their  Objects,  which  are  all  Sophisticated  there,  and  for  the 
most  part  overwhelmed  with  their  contraries.  Here  Pleasure 
looks  (methinks)  like  a  beautiful,  constant,  and  modest  Wife; 
it  is  there  an  impudent,  fickle,  and  painted  Harlot.  Here 
is  harmless  and  cheap  Plenty,  there  guilty  and  expenseftil 
Luxury. 

I  shall  onely  instance  in  one  Delight  more,  the  most  natural 
and  best  natur'd  of  all  others,  a  perpetual  companion  of  the 
Husbandman;  and  that  is,  the  satisfeftion  of  looking  round 
about  him,  and  seeing  nothing  but  the  effects  and  improve- 
ments of  his  own  Art  and  Diligence;  to  be  alwayes  gathering 
of  some  Fruits  of  it,  and  at  the  same  time  to  behold  others 
ripening,  and  others  budding:  to  see  all  his  Fields  and  Gardens 
covered  with  the  beauteous  Creatures  of  his  own  Industry ;  and 
to  see,  like  God,  that  all  his  Works  are  Good. 

Him  atqve  h'lrtf  glomtrantvr  Oreadts;  ifiii  ^M 

Agrnela  taciturn  perlentani  gaitdia  peilui.  ^| 

On  his  heart-strings  a  secret  Joy  does  strike.  ■ 

The  Antiquity  of  his  Art  is  certainly  not  to  be  contested  by 
any  other.  The  three  first  Men  in  the  World,  were  a 
"  jdner,  a  Ploughman,  and  a  Grazier;  and  if  any  man  objeit, 
■at  the  second  of  these  was  a  Murtherer,  I  desire  he  would 
isider,  that  as  soon  as  he  was  so,  he  quitted  our  Profession, 
id  turn'd  Builder.  It  is  for  this  reason,  I  suppose,  that 
Etcltiiaiticui  forbids  us  to  hate  Husbandry;  because  (sayes  he) 
the  most  High  has  created  it.  We  were  all  Born  to  this  Art,  c-f. ,. 
and  taught  by  Nature  to  nourish  our  Bodies  by  the  same  Earth 
nut  of  which  they  were  made,  and  to  which  they  must  return, 
■id  pay  at  last  for  their  sustenance. 
L  cc  2  403 


any 

^Wha 

^Bons 
Bnd 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Behold  the  Original  and  Primitive  Nobility  of  all  those  great 
Persons,  who  are  too  proud  now,  not  onely  to  till  the  Ground, 
but  almost  to  tread  upon  it.  We  may  taUce  what  we  please  of 
Lilies,  and  Lions  Rampant,  and  Spread-Eaeles  in  Fields  d'  Or, 
or  d' Argent;  but  if  Heraldry  were  guided  by  Reason,  a 
Plough  in  a  Field  Arable,  would  be  the  most  Noble  and 
Antient  Armes. 

All  these  considerations  make  me  fall  into  the  wonder  and 
complaint  of  Columella^  How  it  should  come  to  pass  that  all 
Arts  or  Sciences,  (for  the  dispute,  which  is  an  Art,  and  which  a 
Science,  does  not  belong  to  the  curiosity  of  us  Husbandmen) 
Metaphysicky  Physick^  Morality^  Mathematicksy  Logicky  Rbetmciy 
ice.  which  are  all,  I  grant,  good  and  useful!  faculties,  (except 
onely  Metaphysick  which  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  anj 
thing  or  no)  but  even  f^aulting^  Fencings  Dancingy  Attiring^ 
Cookery^  Carvings  and  such  like  Vanities,  should  all  have 
publick  Schools  and  Masters;  and  yet  that  we  should  never  see 
or  hear  of  any  man  who  took  upon  him  the  Profession  of 
teaching  this  so  pleasant,  so  virtuous,  so  profitable,  so  honour- 
able, so  necessary  Art. 

A  man  would  think,  when  he's  in  serious  humour,  that 
it  were  but  a  vain,  irrational  and  ridiculous  thing,  for  a  great 
company  of  Men  and  Women  to  run  up  and  down  in  a  Room 
together,  in  a  hundred  several  postures  and  figures,  to  no 
purpose,  and  with  no  design;  and  therefore  Dancing  was 
invented  first,  and  onely  practised  anciently  in  the  Ceremonies 
of  the  Heathen  Religion,  which  consisted  all  in  Mommery  and 
Madness;  the  latter  being  the  chief  glory  of  the  Worship,  and 
accounted  Divine  Inspiration:  This,  I  say,  a  severe  Man  would 
think,  though  I  dare  not  determine  so  far  against  so  customary 
a  part  now  of  good  breeding.  And  yet,  who  is  there  among 
our  Gentry,  that  does  not  entertain  a  Dancing  Master  for  his 
Children  as  soon  as  they  are  able  to  walk?  But,  Did  ever  any 
Father  provide  a  Tutor  for  his  Son  to  instruct  him  betimes  in 
the  Nature  and  Improvements  of  that  Land  which  he  intended 
to  leave  him  ?  That  is  at  least  a  superfluity,  and  this  a  Defed 
in  our  manner  of  Education ;  and  therefore  I  could  wish  (but 
cannot  in  these  times  much  hope  to  see  it)  that  one  Colledge  in 
each  University  were  erected,  and  appropriated  to  this  study, 
as  well  as  there  are  to  Medecin,  and  the  Civil  Law:  There 

40+ 


ESSAYS,  IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

^Vould  be  no  need  of  making  a  Body  of  Scholars  and  Fellowcs, 
with  certain  cjidowmcnts,  as  in  other  Colledges;  it  would 
suffice,  if  after  the  manner  of  Halls  in  Oxford^  there  were  only 
four  Professors  constituted  {for  it  would  be  too  much  work  for 
onely  one  Master,  or  Principal,  as  they  call  him  there}  to  teach 
these  four  parts  of  it.  First,  Aratien,  and  all  things  relating  to 
it.  Secondly,  Pasturage.  Thirdly,  Gart/rns,  Orchards,  yint- 
yardi  and  JVoods.  Fourthly,  All  parts  of  Rural  Oecanomy^ 
which  would  contain  the  Government  of  Btn,  Swine,  Poultry, 
Decays,  Pondi,  &c,  and  all  that  which  Ibarra  calls  {''illal'uas 
Pastianfs,  together  with  the  Sports  of  the  Field  (which  ought  to 
be  looked  upon  not  onely  as  Pleasures,  but  as  parts  of  House- 
keeping) and  the  Domestical  conservation  and  uses  of  ail  that 
is  brought  in  by  Industrj'  abroad.  The  business  of  these  Pro- 
fessors should  not  be,  as  is  commonly  praflised  in  other  Arts, 
onely  to  read  Pompous  and  Superficial  Leiffures  out  of  ftrgi/s 
Georgiciei,  Pl'ty,  Varro  or  ColumeHa,  but  to  instruct  their 
Pupils  in  the  whole  Method  and  course  of  this  study,  which 
might  be  run  through  perhaps  with  diligence  in  a  year  or  twoj 
and  the  continual  succession  of  Scholars  upon  a  moderate  taxa- 
tion for  their  Diet,  Lodging,  and  Learning,  would  be  a  sufficient 
constant  revenue  for  Maintenance  of  the  House  and  the  Pro- 
fessors, who  should  be  men  not  chosen  for  the  Ostentation  of 
Critical  Literature,  but  for  solid  and  experimental  Knowledge 
of  the  things  they  teach  such  Men ;  so  industrious  and  publick- 
spirited  as  I  conceive  Mr.  Harilih  to  be,  if  the  Gentleman  be 
yet  alive :  But  it  is  needless  to  speak  farther  of  my  thoughts  of 
this  Design,  unless  the  present  Disposition  of  the  Age  allowed 
more  probability  of  bringing  it  into  execution.  What  I  have 
further  to  say  of  the  Country  Life,  shall  be  borrowed  from  the 
Poets,  who  were  alwayes  the  most  faithful  and  afTetftionatc 
friends  to  it.  Poetry  was  Born  atnong  the  Shepherds. 
Nesda  qua  Natali  talum  duktd'ine  Musas 
Duiit,  isf  immemores  mn  sinh  esse  sui. 
The  Muses  still  love  their  own  Native  place, 
T'has  secret  Charms  which   nothing  can  deface. 

their  work;  one 


Might  as  well 


h,  no  other 

I 

e  IS 

proper  for 

undertalce  to 

1  a  Crowd 

midst  of  N 

ant 

Tumult. 

0  make  good 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

As  well  might  Corn  as  Verse  in  Cities  grow; 

In  vain  the  thankless  Glebe  we  Plow  and  Sow, 

Aninst  th' unnatural  Soil  in  vain  we  strive; 

'Tis  not  a  Ground  in  which  these  Plants  will  thrive. 

It  will  bear  nothing  but  the  Nettles  or  Thomes  of  Satyn^ 
which  grow  most  naturallv  in  the  worst  Earth;  And  therefore 
almost  all  Poets,  except  tnose  who  were  not  able  to  eat  Broul 
without  the  bounty  of  Great  men,  that  is,  without  what  thejr 
could  ztx  by  Flattering  of  them,  have  not  onelv  withdrawn 
themselves  from  the  Vices  and  Vanities  of  the  Grand  World 
(Pariter  vitiisque  yocisqui  Altius  humanis  exeruert  caput)  into  the 
innocent  happiness  of  a  retired  Life;  but  have  commended  and  | 
adorned  nothing  so  much  by  their  Ever-living  Poems.  HmUy 
was  the  first  or  second  Poet  in  the  World  that  remaines  yet 
extant  (if  Homgry  as  some  think,  preceded  him,  but  I  rather 
believe  they  were  Contemporaries)  and  he  is  the  first  Writer 
too  of  the  Art  of  Husbandry:  He  has  contributed  (sayes 
Columella)  not  a  little  to  our  Profession;  I  suppose  he  means 
not  a  little  Honour,  for  the  matter  of  his  Instrudions  is  not 
very  important:  His  great  Antiquity  is  visible  through  the 
Gravity  and  Simplicity  of  his  Stile.  The  most  Acute  ot  all  his 
sayings  concerns  our  purpose  very  much,  and  is  couched  in  the 
reverend  obscurity  of  an  Oracle.  'tt\€6v  fffucrv  Uavrb^*  The 
half  is  more  then  the  whole.  The  occasion  of  the  speech 
is  this;  His  Brother  Perses  had  by  corrupting  some  great  men 
(Baaikfja^  ^a>po<pdyov^y  Great  Bribe-eaters  he  calls  them) 
gotten  from  him  the  half  of  his  Estate.  It  is  no  Matter, 
(says  he)  they  have  not  done  me  so  much  prejudice,  as  thejr 
imagine. 

Hijinoi,  ovBi  laaa-iP  8aq)  llXiop  "Hjuuav  JIavT6^, 
OvS"  8aov  iv  fiaXdxif  t€  koX  da^oiXtp  fiij   8v€iap, 
Kpin^avre^  yiip  i'Xfivai  0€ol  fiiov  dvOpmrouri. 

Unhappy  they  to  whom  God  has  not  revealM 
By  a  strong  Light  which  must  their  sence  controle, 
That  halfe  a  great  Estate's  more  then  the  whole: 
Unhappy,  from  whom  still  conceal'd  does  lie 
Of  Roots  and  Herbs,  the  wholesome  Luxurie. 

406 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

This  I  conceive  to  have  been  Honest  Hemiis  meaning. 
From  Homtr  we  must  not  cxpeft  much  concerning  our  a^irs. 
He  was  Blind  and  could  neither  work  in  the  Countrcy,  nor 
enjoy  the  pleasures  of  it,  his  helpless  Poverty  was  likeliest  to  be 
sustained  in  the  richest  places,  he  was  to  delight  the  Grcaani 
with  fine  tales  of  the  War^  and  adventures  of  their  Ancestors; 
his  Subje^  removed  him  from  alt  Commerce  with  us,  and  yet, 
meChinks,  he  made  a  shift  to  show  his  good  will  a  little.  For 
though  he  could  do  us  no  Honour  in  the  person  of  his  Hira 
Vliisei  {much  less  of  AchiUii)  because  his  whole  time  was  con- 
sumed in  Wars  and  Voyages,  yet  he  makes  his  Father  Latrles  a 
Gardener  all  that  while,  and  seeking  his  Consolation  for  the 
absence  of  his  son  in  the  pleasure  of  Planting  and  even  Dunging 
his  own  grounds.  Ye  see  he  did  not  contemn  us  Peasants, 
nay,  so  fiir  was  he  from  that  insolence,  that  he  always  stiles 
Eumirus,  who  kept  the  Hogs  with  wonderful  respeft  Aiov 
v^opffov.  The  Divine  Swine-herd  he  could  ha'  done  no  more 
for  Ment/au!  or  jfgamfmniin.  And  Thncritus  (a  very  ancient 
Poet,  but  he  was  one  of  our  own  Tribe,  for  he  wrote  nothing 
but  Pastorals)  gave  the  same  Epithete  to  an  Husbandman 
Afiti^tTo  A(o;  aypasT-ti.     The  Divine  Husbandman  replyed 

.to  Htrculis,  who  was  but  Ato?  Himself.  These  were  Civil 
Gretts\  and  who  understood  the  Dignity  of  our  Calling! 
unong  the  Rsmnns  we  have  in  the  first  place,  our  truly  Divine 
Firgi/,  who,  though  by  the  favour  of  Mecienas  and  Augustus,  he 
might  have  been  one  of  the  chief  men  of  Ramr,  yet  chose 
rather  to  employ  much  of  his  time  in  the  exercise,  and  much  of 
his  immortal  wit  in  the  praise  and  instrudlions  of  a  Rustique 
Life,  who  though  he  had  written  before  whole  Books  of 
Pastorals  and  Geargiques  could  not  abstain  in  his  great  and 
Imperial  Poem  from  describing  Evander^  one  of  his  best  Princes, 
as  living  just  after  the  homely  manner  of  an  ordinary  Countrey- 
man.  He  seats  him  in  a  Throne  of  Maple,  and  lays  him  but 
upon  a  Bears  skin,  the  Kinc  and  Oxen  are  lowing  in  his  Court 
yard,  the  Birds  under  the  Eeves  of  his  Window  call  him  up  in 
the  morning,  and  when  he  goes  abroad,  only  two  Dogs  go 
along  with  him  for  his  guard:  at  last  when  he  brings  Aineas 
into  his  Royal  Cottage,  he  makes  him  say  this  memorable 
complement,  greater  then  eier  yet  was  spoken  at  the  Escuria/, 

^the   Louvre,  or  our  IVhitthall. 

407 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Hoc  {inquit)  Hmina  vlSfor 


Akidis  subiitj  hac  ilium  Rigia  cepit^ 

Audiy  Hospesy  contemmri  opesj  (st  te  quo^  dignum 

Fingi  DiOy  nbusque  vini  non  aspir  igems. 

This  humble  Roof,  this  rustique  Court  (said  He) 
RcccivM  Alcides  crown*d  with  viftory. 
Scorn  not  (Great  Guest)  the  steps  where  he  has  trod, 
But  contemn  Wealth,  and  imitate  a  God. 

The  next  Man  whom  we  are  much  obliged  to,  both  for  his 
Dodtrine  and  Example,  is  the  next  best  Poet  in  the  world  to 
Virgil\  his  dear  friend  Horaa^  who  when  Augustus  had  desired 
Mecitnas  to  perswade  him  to  come  and  live  domestically,  and 
at  the  same  Table  with  him,  and  to  be  Secretary  of  State  of 
the  whole  World  under  him,  or  rather  joyntlv  with  him,  for  he 
says,  ut  nos  in  Epistolis  scribendis  adjuvet^  could  not  be  tempted 
to  forsake  his  Sabin^  or  Tiburtin  Mannor,  for  so  rich  and  so 
glorious  a  trouble.  There  was  never,  I  think,  such  an  example 
as  this  in  the  world,  that  he  should  have  so  much  moderation 
and  courage  as  to  refuse  an  offer  of  such  greatness,  and  the 
Emperour  so  much  generosity  and  good  Nature  as  not  to  be  at 
all  offended  with  his  refusal,  but  to  retain  still  the  same  kind- 
ness, and  express  it  often  to  him  in  most  friendly  and  familiar 
Letters,  part  of  which  are  still  extant.  If  I  should  produce  all 
the  passages  of  this  excellent  Author  upon  the  several  Subjefb 
which  I  treat  of  in  this  Book,  I  must  be  obliged  to  translate  half 
his  works  5  of  which  I  may  say  more  truly  than  in  my  opinion  he 
did  of  Horner^  Qui  quid  sit  pu/chrunty  qutd  Turpe^  quid  utiUy  quid 
noriy  plenius  faf  melius  ChrysippOy  faf  Crantore  dicit.  I  shall  content 
my  self  upon  this  particular  Theme  with  three  only,  one  out  of 
his  OdeSy  the  other  out  of  his  SatyrSy  the  third  out  of  his  [E]pistleSy 
and  shall  forbear  to  collect  the  suffrages  of  all  other  Poets,  , 
which  may  be  found  scattered  up  and  down  through  all  their  / 
writings,  and  especially  in  Martials.  But  I  must  not  omit  to 
make  some  excuse  for  the  bold  undertaking  of  my  own  un- 
skilful Pencil  upon  the  beauties  of  a  Face  that  has  been  drawn 
before  by  so  many  great  Masters,  especially,  that  I  should  dare 
to  do  it  in  Latine  verses  (though  of  another  kind)  and  have  the 
confidence  to  Translate  them.  I  can  only  say  that  I  love  the 
Matter,  and  that  ought  to  cover  many  faults ;  and  that  I  run 
not  to  contend  with  those  before  me,  but  follow  to  applaud  them. 

408 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 


J    \. 


\      •>- 


^.  >>>    X    . "  Firg.  Georg. 

O  firtunatus  nimiumy  &c. 
A  Translation  out  of  VirgiL 

OH  happy,  (if  his  Happiness  he  knows) 
The  Country  Swain,  on  whom  kind  Hcav*n  bestows 
At  home  all  Riches  that  wise  Nature  needs; 
Whom  the  just  earth  with  easie  plenty  feeds. 
/    *Tis  true,  no  morning  Tide  of  Clients  comes. 
And  fills  the  painted  Chanels  of  his  rooms, 
Adoring  the  rich  Figures,  as  they  pass. 
In  Tap*stry  wrought,  or  cut  in  living  brass; 
Nor  is  his  Wooll  superfluously  dy'd 
With  the  dear  Povson  of  Assyrian  pride: 
Nor  do  Arabian  Perfumes  vainly  spoil 
The  Native  Use,  and  Sweetness  of  his  Oyl. 
Instead  of  these,  his  calm  and  harmless  life 
Free  from  th'  Alarms  of  Fear,  and  storms  of  Strife, 
Does  with  substantial  blessedness  abound. 
And  the  soft  wings  of  Peace  cover  him  round: 
Through  artless  Grots  the  murmuring  waters  glide; 
Thick  Trees  both  against  Heat  and  Cold  provide, 
From  whence  the  Birds  salute  him;   and  his  ground 
With  lowing  Herds,  and  Meeting  Sheep  does  sound; 
And  all  the  Rivers,  and  the  Forests  nigh, 
>Both  Food  and  Game,  and  Exercise  supply. 
Here  a  well  hard'ned  active  youth  we  see. 
Taught  the  great  Art  of  chearful  Poverty. 
Here,  in  this  place  alone,  there  still  do  shine 
Some  streaks  of  Love,  both  humane  and  Divine; 
From  hence  Astraa  took  her  flight,  and  here 
Still  her  last  Foot-steps  upon  Earth  appear. 
*Tis  true,  the  first  desire  which  does  controul 
All  the  inferiour  wheels  that  move  my  Soul, 
Is,  that  the  Muse  me  her  high  Priest  would  make; 
Into  her  holyest  Scenes  of  Myst'ry  take, 

409 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  open  there  to  my  mind's  purged  eye 

Those  wonders  which  to  Sense  the  Gods  deny; 

How  in  the  Moon  such  change  of  shapes  is  round: 

The  Moon,  the  changing  Worlds  eternal  bound. 

What  shakes  the  solid  &urth,  what  strong  disease 

Dares  trouble  the  firm  Centre's  antient  ease; 

What  makes  the  Sea  retreat,  and  what  advance: 

f^arieties  too  regular  for  chance. 

What  drives  the  Chariot  on  of  Winters  light. 

And  stops  the  lazy  Waggon  of  the  night. 

But  if  my  dull  and  frozen  Blood  deny, 

To  send  forth  Sp'rits  that  raise  a  Soul  so  high ; 

In  the  next  place,  let  Woods  and  Rivers  be 

My  quiet,  though  unglorious  destiny. 

In  Life's  cool  vale  let  my  low  Scene  be  laid; 

Cover  me  Gods,  with  Tempers  thickest  shade. 

Happy  the  Man,  I  grant,  thrice  happy  he 

Who  can  through  gross  effects  their  causes  see: 

Whose  courage  from  the  deeps  of  knowledg  springs, 

Nor  vainly  fears  inevitable  things; 

But  does  his  walk  of  virtue  calmly  go. 

Through  all  th'allarms  of  Death  and  Hell  below. 

Happy !  but  next  such  Conquerours,  happy  they. 

Whose  humble  Life  lies  not  in  fortunes  way. 

They  unconcern'd  from  their  safe  distant  seat, 

Behold  the  Rods  and  Scepters  of  the  great. 

The  quarrels  of  the  mighty  without  fair. 

And  the  descent  of  forein  Troops  they  hear. 

Nor  can  even  Rome  their  steddy  course  misguide, 

With  all  the  lustre  of  her  perishing  Pride. 

Them  never  yet  did  strife  or  avarice  draw, 

Into  the  noisy  markets  of  the  Law, 

The  Camps  of  Gowned  War,  nor  do  they  live 

By  rules  or  forms  that  many  mad  men  give. 

Duty  for  Natures  Bounty  they  repay. 

Ana  her  sole  Laws  religiously  obey. 

Some  with  bold  Labour  plow  the  faithless  main. 
Some  rougher  storms  in  Princes  Courts  sustain. 
Some  swell  up  their  sleight  sails  with  pop'ular  fame, 
Charm'd  with  the  foolish  whistlings  of  a  Name. 

410 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND    PROSE 

Some  their  vain  wealth  to  Earth  again  commit; 
With  endless  cares  some  brooding  o're  it  sit. 
Country  and  Friends  are  by  some  Wretches  sold, 
To  lie  on   Tyrian  Beds  and  drink  in  Gold; 
No  price  too  high  for  profit  can   be  shown; 
Not  Brothers  blood,  nor  hazards  of  their  own. 
Around  the  World  in  search  of  it  they  roam, 
It  makes  ev'n  their  Antipodes  their  home; 
Mean  while,  the  prudent  Husbandman  is  found, 
In  mutual  duties  striving  with  his  ground. 
And  half  the  year  he  care  of  that  does  tatc, 
That  half  the  year  grateful  returns  does  make. 
Each  fertil  moneih  does  some  new  gifts  present, 
And  with  new  work  his  industry  content. 
This,  the  young  Lamb,  that  the  soft  Fleece  doth  yield. 
This,  loads  with   Hay,  and  that,   with  Corn  the  Field: 
All  sorts  of  Fruit  crown  the  rich  Autumns  Pride: 
And  on  a  swelling  Hill's  warm  stony  side, 
The  powerful  Princely  Purple  of  the  Vine, 
Twice  dy'd  with  the  redoubled  Sun,  does  shine. 
In  th'  Evening  to  a  fair  ensuing  day, 
With  joy  he  sees  his  Flocks  and    Krds  to  play; 
\  And  loaded  Kyne  about  his  Cottage  stand. 
Inviting  with  known  sound  the  Milkers  hand; 
And  when  from  wholsom  labour   he  doth  come. 
With  wishes  to  be  there,  and  wish't  for  home. 
He  meets  at  door  the  softest  humane  blisses, 
His  chast  Wives  welcom,  and  dear  Childrens  kisses. 
When  any  Rural  Holy  dayes  invite 
His  Genius  forth  to  innocent  delight. 
On  Earth's  fair  bed  beneath  some  sacred  shade. 
Amidst  his  equal  friends  carelesly  laid, 
He  sings  thee  Bacchut  Patron  of  the  Vine, 
The  Beechen   Boul  fomes  with  a  floud  of  Wine, 
Not  to  the  loss  of  reason  or  of  strength : 
To  a<^ive  games  and  manly  sport  at  length, 
Their  mirth  ascends,  and  with  fill'd  veins  they  see, 
Who  can  the  best  at  better  trials  be. 
Such  was  the  Life  the  prudent  Sabim  chose, 
From  such  the  old  Hrirurian  virtue  rose. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Such,  Remus  and  the  God  his  Brother  led. 

From  such  firm  footing  Rome  mw  the  World's  head. 

Such  was  the  Life  that  ev'n  till  now  does  raise 

The  honour  of  poor  Sa turns  golden  dajres: 

Before  Men  born  of  Earth  and  buried  there, 

Let  in  the  Sea  their  mortal  fate  to  share. 

Before  new  wayes  of  perishing  were  sought. 

Before  unskilful  Death  on  Anvils  wrought. 

Before  thpse  Beasts  which  humane  Life  sustain. 

By  Men,  unless  to  the  Gods  use  were  slain. 


HoraL  Epodon. 

Beams  tile  qui  procul^  &c. 

HAppy  the  Man  whom  bounteous  Gods  allow 
With  his  own  Hands  Paternal  Grounds  to  plough! 
Like  the  first  golden  Mortals  Happy  he 
From  Business  and  the  cares  of  Money  free! 
No  humane  storms  break  off  at  Land  his  sleep. 
No  loud  Alarms  of  Nature  on  the  Deep, 
From  all  the  cheats  of  Law  he  lives  secure, 
Nor  does  th*aflFronts  of  Palaces  endure; 
Sometimes  the  beauteous  Marriagable  Vine 
He  to  the  lusty  Bridegroom  Elm  does  joyn ; 
Sometimes  he  lops  the  barren  Trees  aroimd. 
And  grafts  new  Life  into  the  fruitful  wound; 
Sometimes  he  sheers  his  Flock,  and  sometimes  he 
Stores  up  the  Golden  Treasures  of  the  Bee. 
He  sees  his  lowing  Herds  walk  oVe  the  Plain, 
Whilst  neighbouring  Hills  low  back  to  them  again: 
And  when  the  Season  Rich  as  well  as  Gay, 
All  her  Autumnal  Bounty  does  display. 
How  is  he  pleas'd  th' encreasing  Use  to  see. 
Of  his  well  trusted  Labours  bend  the  tree? 
Of  which  large  shares,  on  the  glad  sacred  dates 
He  gives  to  Friends,  and  to  the  Gods  repays. 
With  how  much  joy  do's  he  beneath  some  shade 
By  aged  trees  rev'rend  embraces  made, 

412 


ESSAYS,  IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

His  careless  head  on  the  fresh  Green  recline. 
His  head  uncharged  with  Fear  or  with  Design. 
By  him  a  River  constantly  complaines, 
The  Birds  above  rejoyce  with  various  strains 
And  in  the  solemn  Scene  their  Orgies  keep 
Like  Dreams  mixt  with  the  Gravity  of  sleep, 
Sleep  which  does  alwaies  there  for  entrance  wait 
And  nought  within  against  it  shuts  the  gate. 

Nor  does  the  roughest  season  of  the  dcy, 
Or  sullen  Jovi  all  sports  to  him  deny, 
He  runs  the  Ma%is  of  the  nimble  Hare, 
His  well-mouthM  Dogs  glad  concert  rends  the  air. 
Or  with  game  bolder,  and  rewarded  more, 
He  drives  into  a  Toil,  the  foaming  Bore, 
Here  flies  the  Hawk  t'  assault,  and  there  the  Net 
To  intercept  the  travailing  foul  is  set. 
And  all  his  malice,  all  his  craft  is  shown 
In  innocent  wars,  on  beasts  and  birds  alone. 
This  is  the  life  ftom  all  misfortimes  free. 
From  thee  the  Great  one.  Tyrant  Love,  from  Thee; 
And  if  a  chaste  and  clean,  though  homely  wife 
Be  added  to  the  blessings  of  this  Life, 
Such  as  the  antient  Sun-burnt  Sahim  were. 
Such  as  Apulioy  frugal  still,  does  bear, 
Who  makes  her  Children  and  the  house  her  care, 
And  joyfully  the  work  of  Life  does  share. 
Nor  thinks  herself  too  noble  or  too  fine 
To  pin  the  sheepfold  or  to  milch  the  Kine, 
Who  waits  at  door  against  her  Husband  come 
From  rural  duties,  late,  and  wearied  home, 
Where  she  receives  him  with  a  kind  embrace, 
A  chearful  Fire,  and  a  more  chearful  Face: 
And  fills  the  Boul  up  to  her  homely  Lord, 
And  with  domestique  plenty  loads  the  board. 
Not  all  the  lustful  shel-fish  of  the  Sea, 
Drest  by  the  wanton  hand  of  Luxurie, 
Nor  Ortalam  nor  Godwits  nor  the  rest 
Of  costly  names  that  glorify  a  Feast, 
Are  at  the  Princely  tables  better  cheer. 
Then  Lamb  and  Klid,  Lettice  and  Olives  here. 


413 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


The  Country  Mouse. 
A  Paraphrase  upon  Horace  2  Booky  Satyr.  6, 


A^ 


^T  the  large  foot  of  a  fair  hollow  tree. 

Close  to  plow*d  mund,  seated  commodiouslj, 
His  anticnt  and  Hereditary  House, 
There  dwelt  a  good  substantial  Country-Mouse: 
Frugal,  and  grave,  and  careful  of  the  main, 
Yet,  one,  who  once  did  nobly  entertain 
A  City  Mouse  well  coated,  sleek,  and  gay, 
A  Mouse  of  high  degree,  which  lost  his  way. 
Wantonly  walking  forth  to  take  the  Air, 
And  arrivM  early,  and  belighted  there. 
For  a  days  lodging:   the  good  hearty  Hoast, 

gThe  antient  plenty  of  his  hall  to  boast) 
id  all  the  stores  produce,  that  might  excite. 
With  various  tasts,  the  Courtiers  appetite. 
Fitches  and  Beans,  Peason,  and  Oats,  and  Wheat, 
And  a  large  Chesnut,  the  delicious  meat 
Which  *Jovi  himself,  were  he  a  Mouse,  would  eat. 
And  for  a  Haut  goust  there  was  mixt  with  these 
The  swerd  of  Bacon,  and  the  coat  of  Cheese. 
The  precious  Reliques,  which  at  Harvest,  he 
Had  gather'd  from  the  Reapers  luxurie. 
Freely  (said  he)  fall  on  and  never  spare, 
The  bounteous  Gods  will  for  to  morrow  care. 
And  thus  at  ease  on  beds  of  straw  they  lay. 
And  to  their  Genius  sacrific'd  the  day. 
Yet  the  nice  guest's  Epicurean  mind, 
(Though  breeding  made  him  civil  seem  and  kind) 
Despis'd  this  Country  feast,  and  still  his  thought 
Upon  the  Cakes  and  Pies  of  London  wrought. 
Your  bounty  and  civility  (said  he) 
Which  I'm  surpriz'd  in  these  rude  parts  to  see, 
Shews  that  the  Gods  have  given  you  a  mind, 
Too  noble  for  the  £cite  which  here  you  find. 

4H 


ESSAYS,   IN    VERSE   AND   PROSE 

Why  should  it  Soul,  so  virtuous  and  so  great. 
Lose  it  self  thus  in  an  Obscure  retreat? 
Let  savage  Beasts  todg  in  a  Country  Den, 
You  should  see  Towns,  and  Manners  know,  and  men: 
And  taste  ihe  generous  Lux'ury  of  the  Court, 
Where  all  the  Mice  of  quality  resort; 
Where  thousand  beauteous  shees  about  you  move, 
And  by  high  fere,  are  plyant  made  to  love. 
We  all  e*re  long  must  render  up  our  breath, 
No  cave  or  hole  can  shelter  us  from  death. 
Since  Life  is  so  uncertain,  and  so  short, 
Let's  spend  it  all  in  feasting  and  in  sport. 
Come,  worthy  Sir,  come  with  me,  and  partake, 
AH  the  great  things  that  mortals  happy  make. 
i       Alas,  what  virtue  hath  sufficient  Arms, 
T'opposc  bright  Honour,  and  soft  Pleasures  charms? 
What  wisdom  can  their  magick  force  repel? 
It  draws  this  reverend  Hermit   from  his  Cel. 
It  was  the  time,  when  witty  Poets  tell, 
That  Phcebus  into  Thetis  bmm  fill : 
She  bluiht  at  Jint,  and  thtn  put  out  iht  light. 
And  drew  the  madeit  Curtains  ef  the  night. 
Plainly,  the  troth  to  lell,  the  bun  was  set, 
When  to  the  Town  our  wearied  Travellers  get, 
To  a  Lords  house,  as  Lordly  as  can  be 
Made  for  the  use  of  Pride  and  Luxury, 
They  come;    the  gentle  Courtier  at  the  door 
Stops  and  will  hardly  enter  in   before. 
But  'tis,  Sir,  your  command,  and  being  so, 
I  'm  sworn  t'  obedience,  and  so  in  they  go. 
Behind  a  hanging  in  a  spacious  room, 
(The  richest  work  of  Mortclakes  noble  Loom) 
They  wait  awhile  their  wearied   limbs  to  rest, 
Till  silence  should  invite  them  to  their  feast. 
jtbottt  tht  hour  thai  Cynthia's  Sihrr  light. 
Had  tauch'd  the  pale  Aieridies  ef  the  night; 
At  last  the  various  Supper  being  done, 
It  happened  that  the  Company  was  gone, 
Into  a  room  remote.  Servants  and  all. 
To  please  their  nobles  fancies  with  a  Ball. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Our  hoet  leads  forth  his  stranger,  and  do's  find. 
All  fitted  to  the  bounties  of  his  mind. 
Still  on  the  Table  half  fill'd  dishes  stood, 
And  with  delicious  bits  the  floor  was  strow'd. 
The  courteous  mouse  presents  him  with  the  best, 
And  both  with  fat  varieties  are  blest, 
Th'  industrious  Peasant  every  where  does  range. 
And  thanks  the  gods  for  his  Life's  happy  change. 
Loe,  in  the  midst  of  a  well  fraited  Pye, 
They  both  at  last  dutted  and  wanton  lye. 
When  see  the  sad  Reverse  of  prosperous  fate, 
And  what  fierce  storms  on  mortal  glories  wait. 
With  hideous  noise,  down  the  rude  servants  come. 
Six  dogs  before  run  barking  into  th'  room ; 
The  wretched  eluttons  fly  with  wild  affright. 
And  hate  the  fulness  which  retards  their  flight. 
Our  trembling  Peasant  wishes  now  in  vain. 
That  Rocks  and  Mountains  cover'd  him  again. 
Oh  how  the  chanee  of  his  poor  life  he  curst  I 
This,  of  all  lives  (said  he)  is  sure  the  worst. 
Give  me  again,  ye  godsy  my  Cave  and  wood; 
With  peace,  let  tares  and  acorns  be  my  food. 


A  Paraphrase  upon  the  lo^  Epistle  of  the  first 

Book  of  Horace. 


H 


Horace  to  Fuscus  Aristius. 

Ealth,  from  the  lover  of  the  Country  me. 
Health,  to  the  lover  of  the  City  thee, 
A  difference  in  our  souls,  this  only  proves. 
In  all  things  else,  w'  agree  like  marryed  doves. 
But  the  warm  nest,  and  crowded  dove-house  thou 
Dost  like;   I  loosly  fly  from  bough  to  bough. 
And  Rivers  drink,  and  all  the  shining  day. 
Upon  fair  Trees,  or  mossy  Rocks  I  play; 

416 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

In  fine,  I  live  and  reign  when  I  retire 
From  all  that  you  equal  with  Heaven  admire. 
Like  one  at  last  from  the  Priests  service  fled, 
Loathing  the  honie'd  Cakes,  I  long  for  Bread. 
<  Would  I  a  house  for  happines  ereft. 
Nature  alone  should  be  the  Architect. 
She'd  build  it  more  convenient,  then  great, 

\.And  doubtless  in  the  Country  choose  her  seat. 
Is  there  a  place,  doth  better  helps  supply, 
Against  the  wounds  of  Winters  cruelty  r 
Is  there  an  Ayr  that  gentl'er  does  asswage 
The  mad  Celestial  Dogs,  or  Lyons  rage  ? 
Is  it  not  there  that  sleep  (and  only  there) 
Nor  noise  without,  nor  cares  within  does  fear? 
Does  art  through  pipes,  a  purer  water  bring. 
Then  that  which  nature  straines  into  a  spring? 

/'Can  all  your  Tap'stries,  or  your  Pidlures  show 
More  b^uties  then  in  herbs  and  flowers  do  grow? 
Fountains  and  trees  our  wearied  Pride  do  please, 

\    Even  in  the  midst  of  gilded  Palaces. 

And  in  your  towns  that  prospect  gives  delight. 
Which  opens  roimd  the  country  to  our  sight. 
Men  to  the  good,  from  which  they  rashly  fly. 
Return  at  last,  and  their  wild  Luxury 
Does  but  in  vain  with  those  true  joyes  contend. 
Which  Nature  did  to  mankind  recommend. 
The  man  who  changes  gold  for  burnisht  Brass, 
Or  small  right  Gems,  for  larger  ones  of  glass  : 
Is  not,  at  length,  more  certain  to  be  made 
Ridiculous,  and  wretched  by  the  trade. 
Than  he,  who  sells  a  solid  good,  to  buy 
The  painted  goods  of  Pride  and  Vanity. 
If  thou  be  wise,  no  glorious  fortune  choose. 
Which  *tis  but  pain  to  keep,  yet  grief  to  loose. 
For,  when  we  place  even  trifles,  in  the  heart. 
With  trifles  too,  unwillingly  we  part. 
An  humble  Roof,  plain  bed,  and  homely  board. 
More  clear,  untainted  pleasures  do  aSbrd, 
Then  all  the  Tumult  of  vain  greatness  brings 
To  Kings,  or  to  the  favorites  of  Kings. 

C.  II.  DD  417 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

The  horned  Deer  by  Nature  armM  so  well, 
Did  with  the  Horse  in  common  pasture  dwell; 
And  when  thev  fought,  the  field  it  alwares  wan, 
Till  the  ambitious  Horse  begg'd  help  of  Man, 
And  took  the  bridle,  and  thenceforth  did  reign 
Bravely  alone,  as  Lrord  of  all  the  plain : 
But  never  after  could  the  Rider  get 
From  off  his  back,  or  from  his  mouth  the  bit. 
So  they,  who  poverty  too  much  do  fear, 
T'  avoid  that  weight,  a  greater  burden  bear ; 
That  they  might  row'r  above  their  equals  have. 
To  cruel  Masters  they  themselves  enslave. 
For  Gold,  their  Liberty  exchanged  we  see. 
That  fairest  flow'r,  which  crowns  Humanity. 
And  all  this  mischief  does  upon  them  light. 
Only,  because  they  know  not  how,  aright. 
That  great,  but  secret,  happiness  to  prize. 
That's  laid  up  in  a  Little,  for  the  Wise: 
That  is  the  best,  and  easiest  Estate, 
Which  to  a  man  sits  close,  but  not  too  strait; 
*Tis  like  a  shooe ;  it  pinches,  and  it  burns. 
Too  narrow ;  and  too  large  it  overturns. 
My  dearest  friend,  stop  thy  desires  at  last. 
And  chearfuUy  enjoy  the  wealth  thou  hast. 
And,  if  me  still  seeking  for  more  you  see. 
Chide,  and  reproach,  despise  and  laugh  at  me. 
Money  was  made,  not  to  command  our  will. 
But  all  our  lawful  pleasures  to  fulfil. 
Shame  and  wo  to  us,  if  we'  our  wealth  obey ; 
The  Horse  doth  with  the  Horse-man  nm  away. 


418 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 


The  Country  Life. 

Libr.  4.   Plantarum. 

BLcst  be  the  man  (and  blest  he  is)  whom[e're] 
(Plac*d  far  out  of  the  roads  of  Hope  or  Fear) 
A  little  Field,  and  little  Garden  feeds; 
The  Field  gives  all  that  Frugal  Nature  needs, 
The  wealthy  Garden  liberally  bestows 
All  she  can  ask,  when  she  luxurious  grows. 
The  specious  inconveniences  that  wait 
Upon  a  life  of  Business,  and  of  State, 
He  sees  (nor  does  the  sight  disturb  his  rest) 
By  Fools  described,  by  wicked  men  possest. 
Thus,  thus  (and  this  deserv'd  great  flrgils  praise) 
The  old  Corycian  Yeom[a]n  past  his  daies, 
Thus  his  wise  life  Abdolonymus  spent: 
Th'  Ambassadours  which  the  great  Emp'rour  sent 
To  ofier  him  a  Crown,  with  wonder  foimd 
The  reverend  Gard'ner  howing  of  his  Ground, 
Unwillingly  and  slow  and  discontent, 
From  his  lovM  Cottage,  to  a  Throne  he  went? 
And  oft  he  stopt  in  his  tryumphant  way. 
And  oft  lookt  back,  and  oft  was  heard  to  say 
Not  without  sighs,  Alas,  I  there  forsake 
A  happier  Kingdom  then  I  go  to  take. 
Thus  Aglaiis  (a  man  unknown  to  men. 
But  the  gods  knew  and  therefore  lov'd  him  Then) 
Thus  liv*d  obscurely  then  without  a  Name, 
Aglaiis  now  consign'd  t*  eternal  Fame. 
For  GygeSy  the  rich  King,  wicked  and  great, 
Presum  d  at  wise  Apollos  Delphick  seat 
Presum'd  to  ask.  Oh  thou,  the  whole  Worlds  Eye, 
See'st  thou  a  Man,  that  Happier  is  then  I  ? 
The  God,  who  scorn'd  to  flatter  Man,  reply'd, 
Aglaiis  Happier  is.     But  Gyges  cry^d^ 
In  a  proud  rage.  Who  can  that  AglaUs  be? 
We  have  heard  as  yet  of  no  such  King  as  Hee. 

DD2  419 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

And  true  it  was  through  the  whole  Earth  around 
No  King  of  such  a  Name  was  to  be  found. 
Is  some  old  Hero  of  that  name  alive, 
Who  his  high  race  does  from  the  Gods  derive  ? 
Is  it  some  mighty  General  that  has  done, 
Wonders  in  fight,  and  God-like  honours  wone  ? 
Is  it  some  m[a]n  of  endless  wealth,  said  he? 
None,  none  of  these ;  who  can  this  AglaUs  bee  ? 
After  long  search  and  vain  inquiries  past. 
In  an  obscure  Arcadian  Vale  at  last, 
(The  Arcadian  life  has  always  shady  been. 
Near  Sopho^s  Town  (which  he  but  once  had  seen) 
This  AglaUs  who  Monarchs  Envy  drew, 
Whose  Happiness  the  Gods  stood  witness  too. 
This  mighty  AglaUs  was  labouring  found. 
With  his  own  Hands  in  his  own  little  ground. 

So,  gracious  God,  (if  it  may  lawful  be. 
Among  those  foolish  gods  to  mention  Thee) 
So  let  me  adl,  on  such  a  private  stage. 
The  last  dull  Scenes  of  my  declining  Age ; 
After  long  toiles  and  Voyages  in  vain. 
This  quiet  Port  let  my  tost  Vessel  gain, 
Of  Heavenly  rest,  this  Earnest  to  me  lend. 
Let  my  Life  sleep,  and  learn  to  love  her  End. 


The  Garden. 

To  J.  Evelyn  Esquire. 

I  Never  had  any  other  desire  so  strong,  and  so  like  to 
Covetousness  as  that  one  which  I  have  had  always,  that 
I  might  be  master  at  last  of  a  small  house  and  large  garden, 
with  very  moderate  conveniencies  joyned  to  them,  and  there 
dedicate  the  remainder  of  my  life  only  to  the  culture  of  them 
and  study  of  Nature, 

And  there  (with  no  design  beyond  my  wall)  whole  and 

in  tire  to  lye. 
In  no  unadive  Ease,  and  no  unglorious  Poverty. 

420 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Or  as  f^irgil  has  said,  Shorter  and  Better  for  me,  that  I 
might  there  Studiis  florere  ignobilis  otii  (though  I  could  wish 
that  he  had  rather  said,  Nobtlis  otii^  when  he  spoke  of  his  own) 
But  several  accidents  of  my  ill  fortune  have  disappointed  me 
hitherto,  and  do  still,  of  that  felicity ;  for  though  I  have  made 
the  first  and  hardest  step  to  it,  by  abandoning  all  ambitions  and 
hopes  in  this  World,  and  by  retiring  from  the  noise  of  all 
business  and  almost  company,  yet  I  stick  still  in  the  Inn  of  a 
hired  House  and  Garden,  among  Weeds  and  Rubbish ;  and 
without  that  plesantest  work  of  Human  Industry,  the  Im- 
provement of  something  which  we  call  (not  very  properly,  but 
yet  we  call)  Our  Own.  I  am  gone  out  from  Sodoniy  but  I  am 
not  yet  arrived  at  my  Little  Zoar.  O  let  me  escape  thither  {Is  it 
not  a  Little  one  ?)  and  my  Soul  shall  live,  I  do  not  look  back 
yet ;  but  I  have  been  forced  to  stop,  and  make  too  many  halts. 
You  may  wonder.  Sir,  (for  this  seems  a  little  too  extravagant 
and  Pindarical  for  Prose)  what  I  mean  by  all  this  Preface ; 
It  is  to  let  you  know.  That  though  I  have  mist,  like  a 
Chymist,  my  great  End,  yet  I  account  my  afiedlions  and 
endeavours  well  rewarded  by  something  that  I  have  met  with 
by  the  By  ;  which  is,  that  they  have  procured  to  me  some  part 
in  their  kindness  and  esteem  ;  and  thereby  the  honour  of  having 
my  Name  so  advantagiously  recommended  to  Posterity,  by  the 
Epistle  you  are  pleased  to  prefix  to  the  most  useful  Book  that 
has  been  written  in  that  kind,  and  which  |is  to  last  as  long  as 
Moneths  and  Years. 

Among  many  other  Arts  and  Excellencies  which  you  enjoy,  I 
am  glad  to  find  this  Favourite  of  mine  the  most  predominant. 
That  you  choose  this  for  your  Wife,  though  you  have  hundreds 
of  other  Arts  for  your  Concubines  ;  Though  you  know  them, 
and  beget  Sons  upon  them  all  (to  which  you  are  rich  enough  to 
allow  great  Legacies)  yet  the  issue  of  this  seemes  to  be  designed 
by  you  to  the  main  of  the  Estate;  you  have  taken  most 
pleasure  in  it,  and  bestow'd  most  charges  upon  its  Education  : 
and  I  doubt  not  to  see  that  Book,  which  you  are  pleased  to 
Promise  to  the  World,  and  of  which  you  have  given  us  a  Large 
Earnest  in  your  Calendar,  as  Accomplisht,  as  any  thing  can  be 
expelled  from  an  Extraordinary  IVity  and  no  ordinary  Expences, 
and  a  long  Experience.  I  know  no  body  that  possesses  more 
private  happiness  then  you  do  in  your  Garden;  and  yet  no 

421 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

mm  who  makes  his  happiness  more  publick,  by  a  free  com- 
mnnicatioo  of  the  An  and  Knowledge  of  it  to  others.  All  that 
I  m J  fdf  am  able  ]ret  to  do,  is  onely  to  recommend  to  Mankind 
the  search  of  that  Fdicity,  which  you  Instrudl  them  how  to 
Find  and  to  Enjoj. 

I. 

Happj  art  Thou,  whom  God  does  bless 
With  the  full  choice  of  thine  own  Happiness ; 

And  happier  yet,  because  thou'rt  blest 

With  prudence,  how  to  choose  the  best : 
In  Books  and  Gardens  thou  hast  plac'd  aright 

(Things  which  thou  well  dost  imderstand  ; 
And  both  dost  make  with  thy  laborious  hand) 

Thy  noble,  innocent  delight: 
And  in  thy  virtuous  Wife,  where  thou  again  dost  meet 

Both  pleasures  more  refin'd  and  sweet : 

The  fiiirest  Garden  in  her  Looks, 

And  in  her  Mind  the  wisest  Books. 
Oh,  Who  would  change  these  soft,  yet  solid  joys. 

For  empty  shows  and  scnceless  noys; 

And  all  which  rank  Ambition  breeds, 
Which  seem  such  beauteous  Flowers,  and  are  such  poisonous 
Weeds  ? 

2. 

When  God  did  Man  to  his  own  Likeness  make. 
As  much  as  Clay,  though  of  the  purest  kind. 

By  the  great  Potters  art  rcfin'd; 

Could  the  Divine  Impression  take. 

He  thought  it  fit  to  place  him,  where 

A  kind  of  Heaven  too  did  appear. 
As  hr  as  Earth  could  such  a  Likeness  bear : 

That  man  no  happiness  might  want. 
Which  Earth  to  her  first  Master  could  afford; 

He  did  a  Garden  for  him  plant 
By  the  quick  Hand  of  his  Omnipotent  Word. 
As  the  chief  Help  and  Joy  of  human  life. 
He  gave  him  the  first  Gift ;   first,  ev'n  before  a  Wife. 

422 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

3- 

For  Grod,  the  universal  Archite£l, 
'Thad  been  as  easie  to  ereft 

A  Louvre  or  Escurial,  or  a  Tower 

That  might  with  Heav'n  communication  hold, 

As  Babel  vainly  thought  to  do  of  old : 
He  wanted  not  the  skill  or  power, 
In  the  Worlds  Fabrick  those  were  shown, 

And  the  Materials  were  all  his  own. 

But  well  he  knew  what  place  would  best  agree 

With  Innocence,  and  with  Felicity: 

And  we  elsewhere  still  seek  for  them  in  vain, 

If  any  part  of  either  yet  remain  \ 

IS  any  part  of  either  we  expe£t. 

This  may  our  Judgment  in  the  search  direct ; 

God  the  first  Garden  made,  and  the  first  City,  Cain. 


Oh  blessed  shades  I   O  gentle  cool  retreat 

From  all  th'  inmioderate  Heat, 
In  which  the  frandck  World  does  Burn  and  Sweat! 
This  does  the  Lion-Star,  Ambitions  ragej 
This  Avarice,  the  Dogstars  Thirst  asswage; 
Every  where  else  their  fatal  power  we  see. 
They  make  and  rule  Mans  wretched  Destiny: 

They  neither  Set,  nor  Disappear, 

But  tjrrannize  o're  all  the  Year; 
Whilst  we  ne*re  feel  their  Flame  or  Influence  here. 

The  Birds  that  dance  from  Bough  to  Bough, 

And  Sing  above  in  every  Tree, 

Are  not  from  Fears  and  Cares  more  free, 
Then  we  who  Lie,  or  Sit,  or  Walk  below. 

And  should  by  right  be  Singers  too. 
What  Princes  Quire  of  Musick  can  excell 

That  which  within  this  shade  does  dwell  ? 

To  which  we  nothing  Pay  or  Give, 

They  like  all  other  Poets  live, 
Without  reward,  or  thanks  for  their  obliging  pains; 

*Tis  well  if  they  become  not  Prey : 

423 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

The  whis[t]ling  Winds  add  their  less  artfiiU  strains, 
And  a  grave  Base  the  murmuring  Fountains  play ; 
Nature  does  all  this  Harmony  bestow, 

But  to  our  Plants,  Arts  Musick  too, 
The  Pipe,  Theorbo,  and  Guitarr  we  owe ; 
The  Lute  it  self,  which  once  was  Green  and  Mute, 

When  Orpheus  strook  th'  inspired  Lute, 

The  Trees  danc'd  round,  and  understood 

By  Sympathy  the  Voice  of  Wood. 

5. 

These  are  the  Spels  that  to  kind  Sleep  invite. 
And  nothing  does  within  resistance  make. 

Which  yet  we  moderately  take; 

Who  would  not  choose  to  be  awake. 
While  he's  encompast  round  with  such  delight. 
To  th*  Ear,  the  Nose,  the  Touch,  the  Tast  &  Sight  ? 
When  yenus  would  her  dear  Ascanlus  keep 
A  Prisoner  in  the  Downy  Bands  of  Sleep, 
She  Od'rous  Herbs  and  Flowers  beneath  him  ^read 

As  the  most  soft  and  sweetest  Bed; 
Not  her  own  Lap  would  more  have  charm'd  his  Head. 
Who,  that  has  Reason,  and  his  Smell, 
Would  not  among  Roses  and  Jasmin  dwell. 

Rather  then  all  his  Spirits  choak 
With  Exhalations  of  Durt  and  Smoak  ? 

And  all  th'  uncleanness  which  does  drown 
In  Pestilential  Clouds  a  populous  Town  ? 
The  Earth  it  self  breaths  better  Perfumes  here. 
Then  all  the  Fcmal  Men  or  Women  there, 
Not  without  cause,  about  them  bear. 

6. 

When  Epicurus  to  the  World  had  taught. 
That  Pleasure  was  the  chiefest   Good, 

(And  was  perhaps  i'th'  right,  if  rightly  understood) 
His  Life  he  to  his  l5o6lrine  brought, 

And  in  a  Gardens  shade  that  Sovereign  Pleasure  sought: 

Whoever  a  true  Epicure  would  be, 

May  there  find  cheap  and  virtuous  Luxurie. 

424 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Fitel&us  his  Table,  which  did  hold 
As  many  Creatures  as  the  Ark  of  old: 
That  Fiscal  Table,  to  which  every  day 
All  Countries  did  a  constant  Tribute  pay, 
Could  nothing  more  delicious  afford, 

Then  Natures  Liberalitie, 
Helpt  with  a  little  Art  and  Industry, 
Allows  the  meanest  Gard'ners  board. 
The  wanton  Tast  no  Fish,  or  Fowl  can  choose. 
For  which  the  Grape  or  Melon  she  would  lose. 
Though  all  th'  Inhabitants  of  Sea  and  Air 
Be  listed  in  the  Gluttons  bill  of  Fare ; 

Yet  still  the  Fruits  of  Earth  we  see 
PIac*d  the  Third  Story  high  in  all  her  Luxury. 


But  with  no  Sence  the  Garden  does  comply; 
None  courts,  or  flatters,  as  it  does  the  Eye: 
When  the  great  Hebrew  King  did  almost  strain 
The  wond'rous  Treasures  of  his  Wealth  and  Brain, 
His  Royal  Southern  Guest  to  entertain; 

Though  she  on  Silver  Floores  did  tread. 
With  bright  Assyrian  Carpets  on  them  spread. 
To  hide  the  Metals  Poverty. 

Though  she  look'd  up  to  Roofs  of  Gold, 

And  nought  around  her  could  behold 
But  Silk  and  rich  Embrodery, 
And  Babylonian  Tapestry, 

And  wealthy  Hirams  Princely  Dy: 
Though  Ophirs  Starry  Stones  met  every  where  her  Eye; 
Though  She  her  self,  and  her  gay  Host  were  drest 
With  all  the  shining  glories  of  the  East ; 
When  lavish  Art  her  costly  work  had  done. 

The  honour  and  the  Prize  of  Bravery 
Was  by  the  Garden  from  the  Palace  won ; 
And  every  Rose  and  Lilly  there  did  stand 

Better  attir'd  by  Natures  hand: 
The  case  thus  judgd  against  the  King  we  see. 
By  one  that  would  not  be  so  Rich,  though  Wiser  far  then  He. 

42s 


\ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

8. 

Nor  does  this  happy  place  onely  dispence 

Such  various  Pleasures  to  the  Sence; 
Here  Health  it  self  does  live, 
That  Salt  of  Life,  which  does  to  all  a  relish  give, 
Its  standing  Pleasure,  and  Intrinsick  Wealth, 
The  Bodies  Virtue,  and  the  Souls  good  Fortune  Health. 
The  Tree  of  Life,  when  it  in  Eden  stood. 
Did  its  immortal  Head  to  Heaven  rear; 
It  lasted  a  tall  Cedar  till  the  Flood ; 
Now  a  small  thorny  Shrub  it  does  appear ; 

Nor  will  it  thrive  too  every  where: 

It  alwayes  here  is  freshest  seen; 

*Tis  onelv  here  an  Ever-green. 

If  through  the  strong  and  beauteous  Fence 

Of  Temperance  and  Innocence, 
And  wholsome  Labours,  and  a  quiet  Mind, 

Any  Diseases  passage  find. 

They  must  not  think  here  to  assail 
A  Land  unarm'd,  or  without  a  Guard; 
They  must  fight  for  it,  and  dispute  it  hard. 

Before  they  can  prevail: 

Scarce  any  Plant  is  growing  here 
Which  against  Death  some  Weapon  does  not  bear. 

Let  Cities  boast.  That  they  provide 

For  Life  the  Ornaments  of  rride; 

But  'tis  the  Country  and  the  Field, 

That  furnish  it  with  StafFe  and  Shield. 


Where  does  the  Wisdom  and  the  Power  Divine 
In  a  more  bright  and  sweet  Reflection  shine? 
Where  do  we  finer  strokes  and  colours  see 
Of  the  Creators  Real  Poetry, 

Then  when  we  with  attention  look 
Upon  the  Third  Dayes  Volume  of  the  Book? 
If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  Eye, 

We  all  like  Moses  should  espy 
Ev'n  in  a  Bush  the  radiant  Deitie. 

426 


ESSAYS,  IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

But  we  despise  these  his  Inferiour  waves, 
(Though  no  less  fiill  of  Miracle  and  Praise) 

Upon  the  Flowers  of  Heaven  we  gaze; 
The  SL^  of  Earth  no  wonder  in  us  rlise, 

Though  these  perhaps  do  more  then  they,  — 

The  life  of  Mankind  sway. 
Although  no  part  of  mighty  Nature  be 
More  stor'd  with  Beauty,  rower,  and  Mystcrie; 
Yet  to  encourage  human  Industrie, 
God  has  so  ordered,  that  no  other  part 
Such  Space,  and  such  Dominion  leaves  for  Art. 

10. 

We  no  where  Art  do  so  triumphant  see. 

As  when  it  Grafs  or  Buds  the  Tree; 
In  other  things  we  count  it  to  excell, 
If  it  a  Docile  Schollar  can  appear 
To  Nature,  and  but  imitate  her  well; 
It  over-rules,  and  is  her  Master  here. 
It  imitates  her  Makers  Power  Divine, 
And  changes  her  sometimes,  and  sometimes  does  refine: 
It  does,  like  Grace,  the  Fallen  Tree  restore 
To  its  blest  state  of  Paradise  before: 
Who  would  not  joy  to  see  his  conquering  hand 
Ore  all  the  Vegetable  World  command? 
And  the  wild  Giants  of  the  Wood  receive 

What  Law  he's  pleas'd  to  give  ? 
He  bids  th*  il-natur'd  Crab  produce 
The  gentler  Apples  Winy  Juice; 

The  golden  fruit  that  worthy  is 

Of  Galatea*s  purple  kiss; 

He  does  the  savage  Hawthorn  teach 

To  bear  the  Medlar  and  the  Pear, 

He  bids  the  rustick  Plum  to  rear 

A  noble  Trunk,  and  be  a  Peach. 

Even  Daphnes  coyness  he  does  mock, 

And  weds  the  Cherry  to  her  stock. 

Though  she  refus'd  Apolloes  suit; 

Even  she,  that  chast  and  Virgin  Tree, 

Now  wonders  at  her  self,  to  see 
That  she's  a  mother  made,  and  blushes  in  her  fruit. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

II. 

Methinks  I  see  great  DiocUstan  walk 
In  the  Salonlan  Gardens  noble  shade, 
Which  by  his  own  Imperial  hands  was  made: 
I  see  him  smile  (methinks)  as  he  does  talk 
With  the  Ambassadors,  who  come  in  vain, 

T' entice  him  to  a  throne  again. 
If  I,  my  Friends  (said  he)  should  to  vou  show 
All  the  delights,  which  in  these  Gardens  grow; 
'Tis  likelier  much,  that  you  should  with  me  stay, 
Than  'tis  that  you  should  carry  me  away: 
And  trust  me  not,  my  Friends,  if  every  day, 

I  walk  not  here  with  more  delight. 
Then  ever  after  the  most  happy  fight. 
In  Triumph,  to  the  Capitol,  I  rod. 
To  thank  the  gods,  &  to  be  thought,  my  self  almost  a  god. 


6.     Of  Greatness. 

Since  we  cannot  attain  to  Greatness,  (saies  the  Sieur  dt 
Montagn)  let's  have  our  revenge  by  railing  at  it:  this 
he  spoke  but  in  Jest.  I  believe  he  desired  it  no  more  then 
I  do,  and  had  less  reason,  for  he  enjoyed  so  plentiful  and 
honourable  a  fortune  in  a  most  excellent  Country,  as  allowed 
him  all  the  real  conveniences  of  it,  seperated  and  purged  from 
the  Incommodities.  If  I  were  but  in  his  condition,  I  should 
think  it  hard  measure,  without  being  convinced  of  any  crime, 
to  be  sequestred  from  it  and  made  one  of  the  Principal  OflScers 
of  State.  But  the  Reader  may  think  that  what  I  now  say,  is  of 
small  authority,  because  I  never  was,  nor  ever  shall  be  put  to 
the  tryal :    I  can  therefore  only  make  my  Protestation, 

If  ever  I  more  Riches  did  desire 
Then  Cleanliness  and  Quiet  do  require. 
If  e*re  Ambition  did  my  Fancy  cheat^ 
With  any  wishy  so  mean  as  to  he  greaty 
Continue^  Heav'ny  still  from  me  to  remove 
The  Humble  Biasings  of  that  Life  I  love. 

428 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

I  know  very  many  men  will  despise,  and  some  pity  me,  for 
this  humour,  as  a  poor  spirited  fellow ;  but  I'me  content,  and 
like  Horace  thank  God  for  being  so.  DH  bene  fecerunt  inopis 
me  juodque  pusilli  Finxerunt  animi.  I  confess,  I  love  Littleness 
almost  in  all  things.  A  little  convenient  Estate,  a  little  chearful 
House,  a  little  Company,  and  a  very  little  Feast,  and  if  I  were 
ever  to  fall  in  love  again  (which  is  a  great  Passion,  and  therefore, 
I  hope,  I  have  done  with  it)  it  would  be,  I  think,  with  Pretti- 
ness,  rather  than  with  Majestical  Beauty.  I  would  neither 
wish  that  my  Mistress,  nor  my  Fortune,  should  be  a  Bona  Roba^ 
nor  as  Homer  uses  to  describe  his  Beauties,  like  a  Daughter  of 
great  ^Juptter  for  the  stateliness  and  largeness  of  her  person,  but 
as  Lucretius  saies, 

Parvuloy  pumi/ioy  yiapirtov  fiCa^  tota  merum  sal. 

Where  there  is  one  man  of  this,  I  believe  there  are  a 
thousand  of  Senecto^s  mind,  whose  ridiculous  afiedtation  of 
Grandeur,  Seneca  the  Elder  describes  to  this  efieft.  Senecio  was 
a  num  of  a  turbid  and  confused  wit,  who  could  not  endure  to 
speak  any  but  mighty  words  and  sentences,  till  this  humour 
grew  at  last  into  so  notorious  a  Habit,  or  rather  Disease,  as 
became  the  sport  of  the  whole  Town:  he  would  have  no 
servants,  but  huge,  massy  fellows,  no  plate  or  houshold-stuff, 
but  thrice  as  big  as  the  fashion:  you  may  believe  me,  for  I 
speak  it  without  Railery,  his  extravagancy  came  at  last  into 
such  a  madness,  that  he  would  not  put  on  a  pair  of  shooes,  each 
of  which  was  not  big  enough  for  both  his  feet :  he  would  eat 
nothing  but  what  was  great,  nor  touch  any  Fruit  but  Horse- 
plums  and  Pound-pears:  he  kept  a  Concubine  that  was  a  very 
G)rantess,  and  made  her  walk  too  alwaies  in  ChiopinSy  till  at  last, 
he  got  the  Surname  of  Senecio  Grandioy  which,  Messala  said,  was 
not  his  Cognomen^  but  his  Cognomentum :  when  he  declamed  for 
the  three  hundred  LaceiLemonianSj  who  alone  opposed  Xerxes  his 
Army  of  above  three  himdred  thousand,  he  stretch'd  out  his 
armes,  and  stood  on  tiptoes,  that  he  might  appear  the  taller,  and 
cryed  out,  in  a  very  loud  voice ;  I  rcjoyce,  I  rejoyce —  We 
wondred,  I  remember,  what  new  great  fortune  had  befidn  his 
Eminence.  Xerxes  (saies  he)  is  All  mine  own.  He  who  took 
away  the  sight  of  the  Sea,  with  the  Canvas  Vailes  of  so  many 
ships —    and  then  he  goes  on  so,  as  I  know  not  what  to  make 

429 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

of  the  rest,  whither  it  be  the  fault  of  the  Edition,  or  the  Orators 
own  burly  way  of  Non-scnce. 

This  is  the  charadter  that  Seneca  gives  of  this  Hyperbolical 
Fop,  whom  we  stand  amazed  at,  and  yet  there  are  very  few 
men  who  are  not  in  some  things,  and  to  some  degrees  Grandiis. 
Is  any  thing  more  common,  then  to  see  our  Ladies  of  quality 
wear  such  high  shooes  as  thev  cannot  walk  in,  without  one  to 
lead  them  ?  and  a  Gown  as  long  again  as  their  Body,  so  that 
they  cannot  stir  to  the  next  room  without  a  Page  or  two  to 
hold  it  up  ?    I  may  safely  say.  That  all  the  ostentation  of  our 
Grandees  is  just  like  a  Train  of  no  use  in  the  world,  but 
horribly  cumbersome  and  incommodious.     What  is  all  this, 
but  a  spice  of  Grandio?  how  taedious  would  this  be,  if  we  were 
always  bound  to  it  ?     I  do  believe  there  is  no  King,  who  would 
not  rather  be  deposed,  than  endure  every  day  of  his  Reign  all 
the  Ceremonies  of  his  Coronation.     The  mightiest  Princes  are 
glad  to  fly  often  from  these  Majestique  pleasures  (which  is,  me- 
thinks,  no  small  disparagement  to  them)  as  it  were  for  refuge, 
to  the  most  contemptible  divertisements,  and  meanest  recreations 
of  the  vulgar,  nay,  even  of  Children.     One  of  the  most  power- 
ful and  fortunate  Princes  of  the  world,  of  late,  could  finde  out 
no  delight  so  satisfadlory,  as  the  keeping  of  little  singing  Birds, 
and  hearing  of  them,  and  whistling  to  them.     What  did  the 
Emperours  of  the  whole  world  ?     If  ever  any  men  had  the  free 
and  full  enjoyment  of  all  humane  Greatness  (nay  that  would 
not  suffice,  for  they  would  be  gods  too)  they  certainly  possest  it : 
and  yet,  one  of  them  who  stiled  himself  Lord  and  God  of  the 
Earth,  could  not  tell  how  to  pass  his  whole  day  pleasantly, 
without  spending  constant  two  or  three  hours  in  catching  of 
Flies,  and  killing  them  with  a  bodkin,  as  if  his  Godship  had 
been  Beelzebub.     One  of  his  Predecessors,  Nero  (who  never  put 
any  bounds,  nor  met  with  any  stop  to  his  Appetite)  could  divert 
himself  with  no  pastime  more  agreeable,  than  to  run  about  the 
streets  all  night  in  a  disguise,  and  abuse  the  women,  and  affiront 
the  men  whom  he  met,  and  sometimes  to  beat  them,  and  some- 
times to  be  beaten  by  them :   This  was  one  of  his  Imperial 
nocturnal  pleasures.     His  chiefest  in  the  day,  was  to  sing  and 
play  upon  a  Fiddle,  in  the  habit  of  a  Minstril,  upon  the  publick 
stage :  he  was  prouder  of  the  Garlands  that  were  given  to  his 
Divine  voice  (as  they  called  it  then)  in  those  kinde  of  Prizes, 

430 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

than  all  his  Fore&thers  were,  of  their  Triumphs  over  nations: 
He  did  not  at  his  death  complain,  that  so  mighty  an  Emperour 
and  the  last  of  all  the  desarian  race  of  Deities,  should  be 
brought  to  so  shameful  and  miserable  an  end,  but  only  cryed  out, 
Alas,  what  pity  'tis  that  so  excellent  a  Musician  should  perish  in 
this  manner !  His  Uncle  Claudius  spent  half  his  time  at  playing 
at  Dice,  that  was  the  main  fruit  of  his  Soveraignty.  I  omit  the 
madnesses  of  Caligula*s  delights,  and  the  execrable  sordidness  of 
those  of  Tiberius.  Would  one  think  that  Augustus  himself,  the 
highest  and  most  fortunate  of  mankind,  a  person  endowed  too 
with  many  excellent  parts  of  Nature,  should  be  so  hard  put  to 
it  sometimes  for  want  of  recreations,  as  to  be  found  playing  at 
Nuts  and  bounding  stones,  with  little  Syrian  and  Moorish  Boyes, 
whose  company  he  took  delight  in,  for  their  prating  and  their 
wantonness  ? 

Was  it  for  this,  that  Romes  best  blood  he  spilt. 
With  so  much  Falshood,  so  much  guilt  ? 

Was  it  for  this  that  his  Ambition  strove. 

To  aequal  Casar  first,  and  after  Jove? 

Greatness  is  barren  sure  of  solid  joyes; 

Her  Merchandize  (I  fear)  is  all  in  toyes, 

She  could  not  else  sure  so  uncivil  be. 

To  treat  his  universal  Majesty, 
His  new-created  Deity, 
With  Nuts  and  Bounding-stones  and  Boys. 

But  we  must  excuse  her  for  this  meager  entertainment,  she 
has  not  really  wherewithall  to  make  such  Feasts  as  we  imagine, 
her  Guests  must  be  contented  sometimes  with  but  slender 
Gates,  and  with  the  same  cold  meats  served  over  and  over 
again,  even  till  they  become  Nauseous.  When  you  have  pared 
away  all  the  Vanity  what  solid  and  natural  contentment  does 
there  remain  which  may  not  be  had  with  five  himdred  poimds  a 
year  ?  not  so  many  servants  or  horses ;  but  a  few  good  ones, 
which  will  do  all  the  business  as  well:  not  so  many  choice 
dishes  at  every  meal,  but  at  several  meals,  all  of  them,  which 
makes  them  both  the  more  healthy,  and  the  more  pleasant:  not 
so  rich  garments,  nor  so  frequent  changes,  but  as  warm  and  as 
comelv,  and  so  frequent  change  too,  as  is  every  jot  as  good  for 
the  Master,  though  not  for  the  Tailor,  or  l^alet  de  chamber :  not 

43^ 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

such  a  stately  Palace,  nor  guilt  rooms,  or  the  costliest  sorts  of 
Tapestry  ;  but  a  convenient  brick  house,  with  decent  Wainscot, 
and  pretty  Forest-work  hangings.  Lastly,  (for  I  omit  all  other 
particulars,  and  will  end  with  that  whicn  I  love  most  in  both 
conditions)  not  whole  Woods  cut  in  walks,  nor  vast  Parks,  nor 
Fountain,  or  Cascade-Gardens ;  but  herb,  and  flower,  and  fruit- 
Gardens  which  are  more  useful,  and  the  water  every  whit  as 
clear  and  wholesome,  as  if  it  darted  from  the  breasts  of  a  marble 
Nymph,  or  the  Urn  of  a  River-God.  If  for  all  this,  you  like 
better  the  substance  of  that  former  estate  of  Life,  do  but  con- 
sider the  inseparable  accidents  of  both:  Servitude,  Disquiet, 
Danger,  and  most  commonly  Guilt,  Inherent  in  the  one;  in  the 
other  Liberty,  Tranquility,  Security  and  Innocence,  and  when 
you  have  thought  upon  this,  you  will  confess  that  to  be  a  truth 
which  appeared  to  you  before,  but  a  ridiculous  Paradox^  that  a 
low  Fortune  is  better  guarded  and  attended  than  an  high  one,  If 
indeed  we  look  only  upon  the  flourishing  Head  of  the  Tree,  it 
appears  a  most  beautiful  objedl, 

Sed  quantum  vertice  ad  aur\a']s 


Mther\ias\  tantum  radice  ad  Tartara  Undit. 

As  far  as  up  to'wards  He'ven  the  Branches  grow. 
So  far  the  Root  sinks  down  to  Hell  below. 

Another  horrible  disgrace  to  greatness  is,  that  it  is  for  the 
most  part  in  pitiful  want  and  distress :  what  a  wonderful  thing 
is  this  ?  unless  it  degenerate  into  Avarice,  and  so  cease  to  be 
Greatness :  It  falls  perpetually  into  such  Necessities,  as  drive  it 
into  all  the  meanest  and  most  sordid  ways  of  Borrowing, 
Cousinage,  and  Robbery,  Manc'tpiii  locupUs  eget  arts  Cappadocum 
Rex^  This  is  the  case  of  almost  all  Great  men,  as  well  as  of  the 
poor  King  of  Cappadocia.  They  abound  with  slaves,  but  arc 
indigent  of  Money.  The  ancient  Roman  Emperours,  who  had 
the  Riches  of  the  whole  world  for  their  Revenue,  had  where- 
withal to  live  (one  would  have  thought)  pretty  well  at  ease,  and 
to  have  been  exempt  from  the  pressures  of  extream  Poverty. 
But  yet  with  most  of  them,  it  was  much  otherwise,  and  they 
fell  perpetually  into  such  miserable  penury,  that  they  were  forced 
to  devour  or  squeeze  most  of  their  friends  and  servants,  to  cheat 
with  in&mous  projects,  to  ransack  and  pillage  all  their  Pro- 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE   AND   PROSE 

vinces.  This  fashion  of  Imperial  Grandeur,  is  imitated  by  all 
inferiour  and  subordinate  sorts  of  it,  as  if  it  were  a  point  of 
Honour.  They  must  be  cheated  of  a  third  part  of  their 
Estates,  two  other  thirds  they  must  expend  in  Vanity,  so  that 
they  remain  Debtors  for  all  the  Necessary  Provisions  of  life,  and 
have  no  way  to  satisiie  those  debts,  but  out  of  the  succours  and 
supplies  of  Rapine,  as  Riches  encreases  (says  Solomon)  so  do  the 
Moaths  that  devour  it.  The  Master  Moath  has  no  more  than 
before.  The  Owner,  methinks,  is  like  Ocnus  in  the  [F]able,  who 
is  perpetually  winding  a  Rope  of  Hay  and  an  Ass  at  the  end 
perpetually  eating  it.  Out  of  these  inconveniences  arises  natur- 
ally one  more,  which  is,  that  no  Greatness  can  be  satisfied  or 
contented  with  it  self:  still  if  it  could  mount  up  a  little  higher, 
it  would  be  Happy,  if  it  could  gain  but  that  point,  it  would  ob- 
tain all  it*s  desires;  but  yet  at  last,  when  it  is  got  up  to  the  very 
top  of  the  Pic  of  Tenarif,  it  is  in  very  great  danger  of  breaking 
its  neck  downwards,  but  in  no  possibility  of  ascending  upwards 
into  the  scat  of  Tranquility  above  the  Moon.  The  first  am- 
bitious men  in  the  world,  the  old  Gyants  are  said  to  have  made 
an  Heroical  attempt  of  scaling  Heaven  in  despight  of  the  gods, 
and  they  cast  Ossa  upon  Olympus  and  Pelion  upon  Ossa :  two  or 
three  mountains  more  they  thought  would  have  done  their 
Business,  but  the  Thunder  spoild  sul  the  work,  when  they  were 
come  up  to  the  third  story. 

And  what  a  noble  plot  was  crosty 
And  what  a  brave  design  was  lost. 

A  famous  person  of  their  OflF-spring,  the  late  Gyant  of  oui* 
Nation,  when  from  the  condition  of  a  very  inconsiderable  Cap- 
tain, he  had  made  himself  Lieutenant  General  of  an  Army  of 
little  Titans^  which  was  his  first  Mountain,  and  afterwards 
General,  which  was  his  second,  and  after  that,  absolute  Tyrant 
of  three  Kingdoms,  which  was  the  third,  and  almost  touchM 
the  Heaven  which  he  afFeded,  is  believed  to  have  dyed  with 
grief  and  discontent,  because  he  could  not  attain  to  the  honest 
name  of  a  King,  and  the  old  formality  of  a  Crown,  though  he 
had  before  exceeded  the  power  by  a  wicked  Usurpation.  If  he 
could  have  compast  that,  he  would  perhaps  have  wanted  some- 
thing else  that  is  necessary  to  felicity,  and  pined  away  for  want 
of  the  Title  of  an  Emperour  or  a  God,     The  reason  of  this  is, 

c  II.  EE  433 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

that  Greatness  has  no  reallity  in  Nature,  but  a  Creature  of  the 
Fancy,  a  Notion  that  consists  onely  in  Relation  and  Comparison : 
It  is  indeed  an  Idol ;  but  St.  Paul  teaches  us,  Thai  an  Id$l 
is  nothing  in  the  IVorld.  There  is  in  truth  no  Rising  or 
Meridian  of  the  Sun,  but  onely  in  respedt  to  several  places: 
there  is  no  Right  or  Left,  no  Upper-Hand  in  Nature;  every 
thing  is  Little,  and  every  thing  is  Great,  according  as  it  is 
diversly  compared.  There  may  be  perhaps  some  Village  in 
Scotland  or  Ireland  where  I  might  be  a  Great  Man  ;  and  in  that 
case  I  should  be  like  Casar.  (you  would  wonder  how  Cmar 
and  I,  should  be  like  one  another  in  any  thing)  and  choose 
rather  to  be  the  First  man  of  the  Village,  then  Second  at  Rome. 
Our  Country  is  called  Great  Britany^  in  regard  onely  of  a  LesKr 
of  the  same  Name ;  it  would  be  but  a  ridiculous  Epithete  for  it, 
when  we  consider  it  together  with  the  Kingdom  of  China.  That 
too,  is  but  a  pitifull  Rood  of  ground  in  comparison  of  the  whole 
Earth  besides :  and  this  whole  Globe  of  Earth,  which  we  account 
so  immense  a  Body,  is  but  one  Point  or  Atomc  in  relation  to 
those  numberless  Worlds  that  are  scattered  up  and  down  in  the 
Infinite  Space  of  the  Skie  which  we  behold.  The  other  many 
Inconveniences  of  grandeur  I  have  spoken  of  disperstly  in 
several  Chapters,  and  shall  end  this  with  an  Ode  of  Horace^ 
not  exadtly  copyed,  but  rudely  imitated. 


H 


Horace.     L.   3.     Ode   i 
Odi  profanum  vulgus^  &c. 


Ence,  ye  Profane;    I  hate  ye  all; 
Both  the  Great,  Vulgar,  and  the  small. 


To  Virgin  Minds,  which  yet  their  Native  whiteness  hold. 
Not  yet  Discolour'd  with  the  Love  of  Gold, 

(That  Jaundice  of  the  Soul, 
Which  makes  it  look  so  Guilded  and  so  Foul) 
To  you,  ye  very  Few,  these  truths  I  tell; 
The  Muse  inspires  my  Song,  Heark,  and  observe  it  well. 

434 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

2. 

We  look  on  Men,  and  wonder  at  such  odds 

TTwixt  things  that  were  the  same  by  Birth ; 
We  look  on  Kings  as  Giants  of  the  Earth, 
These  Giants  are  but  Pigmeys  to  the  Gods. 

The  humblest  Bush  and  proudest  Oak, 
Are  but  of  equal  proof  against  the  Thunder-stroke, 
Beauty,  and  Strength,  and  Wit,  and  Wealth,  and  Power 

Have  their  short  flourishing  hour; 

And  love  to  see  themselves,  and  smile, 
And  joy  in  their  Preeminence  a  while; 

Even  so  in  the  same  Land, 
Poor  Weeds,  rich  Corn,  gay  Flowers  together  stand; 
Alas,  Death  Mowes  down  all  with  an  impartial  Hand. 


And  all  you  Men,  whom  Greatness  does  so  please. 
Ye  feast  (I  fear)  like  Damocles: 
If  you  your  eyes  could  upwards  move, 

(But  you  (I  fear)  think  nothing  is  above) 

You  would  perceive  by  what  a  little  thread 
The  Sword  still  hangs  over  your  head. 

No  Title  of  Wine  would  drown  your  cares; 

No  Mirth  or  Musick  over-noise  your  feares. 

The  fear  of  Death  would  you  so  watchfiiU  keep. 

As  not  t*  admit  the  Image  of  it,  sleep. 


Sleep  is  a  God  too  proud  to  wait  in  Palaces 
And  yet  so  humble  too  as  not  to  scorn 

The  meanest  Coimtry  Cottages; 

His  Poppey  grows  among  the  Corn. 
The  Halcyon  sleep  will  never  build  his  nest 

In  any  stormy  breast. 

*Tis  not  enough  that  he  does  find 

Clouds  and  Darkness  in  their  Mind;  < 

Darkness  but  half  his  work  will  do. 
'Tis  not  enough;   he  must  find  Quiet  too. 

EE  2  4,l<i 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

5. 

The  man,  who  in  all  wishes  he  does  make, 

Does  onely  Natures  Counsel  take. 
That  wise  and  happy  man  will  never  fear 

The  evil  Aspefts  of  the  Year; 
Nor  tremble,  though  two  Comets  should  appear; 
He  does  not  look  in  Almanacks  to  see. 

Whether  he  Fortunate  shall  be; 
Let  Mars  and  Saturn  in  th*  Heavens  conjoyn, 
And  what  they  please  against  the  World  design, 

So  Jupiter  within  him  shine. 

6. 

If  of  your  pleasures  and  desires  no  end  be  found, 
God  to  your  Cares  and  Fears  will  set  no  bound. 

What  would  content  you  ?     Who  can  tell  ? 
Ye  fear  so  much  to  lose  what  you  have  got, 

As  if  vou  lik'd  it  well. 
Ye  strive  for  more,  as  if  ye  lik'd  it  not. 

Go,  level  Hills,  and  nil  up  Seas, 
Spare  nought  that  may  your  wanton  Fancy  please 

But  trust  Me,  when  you  'have  done  all  this. 
Much  will  be  Missing  still,  and  much  will  be  Amiss. 


7.      Of  Avarice. 

THere  are  two  sorts  of  Avartcey  the  one  is  but  of  a  Bastard 
kind,  and  that  is,  the  rapacious  Appetite  of  Gain;  not  for 
its  own  sake,  but  for  the  pleasure  of  refunding  it  immediately 
through  all  the  Channels  of  Pride  and  Luxury.  The  other  is 
the  true  kind,  and  properly  so  called ;  which  is  a  restless  and 
unsatiable  desire  of  Riches,  not  for  any  farther  end  or  use,  but 
onely  to  hoard,  and  preserve,  and  perpetually  encrease  them. 
The  Covetous  Man,  of  the  first  kind,  is  like  a  greedy  Ostrich^ 
which  devours  any  Metall,  but  'tis  with  an  intent  to  feed  upon 
It,  and  in  efFeft  it  makes  a  shift  to  digest  and  excern  it.  The 
second  is  like  the  foolish  Chough,  which  loves  to  steal  Money 
onely  to  hide  it.      The  first  does  much  harm  to  Mankind,  and 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

a  little  good  too  to  some  few:  The  second  does  good  to 
none;  no,  not  to  himself.  The  first  can  make  no  excuse  to 
God,  or  Angels,  or  Rational  Men  for  his  aflions :  The  second 
can  give  no  Reason  or  colour,  not  to  the  Devil  himself  for 
what  he  does;  He  is  a  slave  to  Mammon  without  wages. 
The  first  makes  a  shift  to  be  beloved;  I,  and  envyed  too  by 
some  People:  The  second  is  the  universal  Objeft  of  Hatred 
and  Contempt.  There  is  no  Vice  has  been  so  pelted  with 
good  Sentences,  and  especially  by  the  Poets,  who  have  pursued 
it  with  Stories  and  Fables,  and  Allegories,  and  Allusions ;  and 
moved,  as  we  say,  every  Stone  to  fling  at  it:  Among  all 
which,  I  do  not  remember  a  more  fine  and  Gentleman-like 
Corredion,  then  that  which  was  given  it  by  one  Line  of 
Ovids. 

Disunt  Luxuria  multaj  Avaritia  Omnia. 

Much  is  wanting  to  Luxury,  All  to  Avarice. 

To  which  saying,  I  have  a  mind  to  add  one  Member,  and 
render  it  thus. 

Poverty  wants  some.  Luxury  Many,  Avarice 
All  Things. 

Some  body  sayes  of  a  virtuous  and  wise  Man,  That  having 
nothing,  he  has  all:  This  is  just  his  Antipode,  Who,  having 
All  things,  yet  has  Nothing.  He's  a  Guardian  Eunuch  to  his 
beloved  Gold ;  Andivi  eos  Amatores  esse  maximos  sed  nil  potesse, 
TheyV  the  fondest  Lovers,  but  impotent  to  Enjoy. 

And,  oh.  What  Mans  condition  can  be  worse 
Then  his,  whom  Plenty  starves,  and  Blessings  curse ; 
The  Beggars  but  a  common  Fate  deplore. 
The  Rich  poor  Man's  Emphatically  Poor. 

I  wonder  how  it  comes  to  pass,  that  there  has  never  been 
any  Law  made  against  him :  Against  him,  do  I  say  ?  I  mean. 
For  him;  as  there  are  publick  Provisions  made  for  all  other 
Madmen :  It  is  very  reasonable  that  the  King  should  appoint 
some  persons  (and  I  think  the  Courtiers  would  not  be  against 
this  proposition)  to  manage  his  Estate  during  his  Life  (for  his 
Heires  commonly  need  not  that  care)  and  out  of  it  to  make 
it  their  business  to  see,  that  he  should   not  want  Alimony 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

befitting  his  condition,  which  he  could  never  get  out  of  his 
own  cruel  fingers.  We  relieve  idle  Vagrants,  and  counterfeit 
Beggars,  but  have  no  care  at  all  of  these  really  Poor  men,  who 
are  (methinks)  to  be  respedfliUy  treated  in  regard  of  their 
quality.  I  might  be  endless  against  them,  but  I  am  almost 
choakt  with  the  super-abundance  of  the  Matter;  Too  much 
Plenty  impoverishes  me  as  it  does  Them.  I  will  conclude  this 
odious  Subject  with  part  of  Horace^ s  first  Satyre^  which  take  in 
his  own  familiar  stile. 

I  *dmire,  Mecanasj  how  it  comes  to  pass. 

That  no  man  ever  yet  contented  was. 

Nor  is,  nor  perhaps  will  be  with  that  state 

In  which  his  own  choice  plants  him  or  his  Fate 

Happy  their  Merchant,  the  old  Soldier  cries; 

The  Merchant  beaten  with  tempestuous  skies, 

Happy  the  Soldier  one  half  hour  to  thee 

Gives  speedy  Death  or  Glorious  viftory. 

The  Lawyer,  knockt  up  early  from  his  rest 

By  restless  Clyents,  calls  the  Peasant  blest. 

The  Peasant  when  his  Labours  ill  succeed, 

Envys  the  Mouth  which  only  Talk  does  feed, 

*Tis  not  (I  think  you'l  say)  that  I  want  store 

Of  Instances,  if  here  I  add  no  more, 

They  are  enough  to  reach  at  least  a  mile 

Beyond  long  Orator  Fabias  his  Stile, 

But,  hold,  you  whom  no  Fortune  e're  endears 

Gentlemen,  Malecontents,  and  Mutineers, 

Who  bounteous  Jove  so  often  cruel  call. 

Behold,  "Jovei  now  resolv'd  to  please  you  all. 

Thou  Souldier  be  a  Merchant,  Merchant,  Thou 

A  Souldier  be;  and.  Lawyer,  to  the  Plow. 

Change  all  their  stations  strait,  why  do  they  stay  ? 

The  Devil  a  man  will  change,  now  when  he  may, 

Were  I  in  General  Jove^s  abused  case. 

By  Jove  Tde  cudgel  this  rebellious  race: 

But  he's  too  good;    Be  all  then  as  you  were, 

However  make  the  best  of  what  you  are. 

And  in  that  state  be  chearful  and  rejoycc. 

Which  either  was  your  Fate,  or  was  your  Choice. 

438 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

No,  they  must  labour  yet,  and  sweat  and  toil, 

And  very  miserable  be  a  while. 

But  'tis  with  a  Design  only  to  gain 

What  may  their  Age  with  plenteous  ease  maintain. 

The  prudent  Pismire  does  this  Lesson  teach 

And  industry  to  Lazy  Mankind  preach. 

The  little  Drudge  does  trot  about  and  sweat, 

Nor  does  he  strait  devour  all  he  can  get. 

But  in  his  temperate  Mouth  carries  it  home 

A  stock  for  Winter  which  he  knows  must  come. 

And  when  the  rowling  World  to  Creatures  here 

Turns  up  the  deform'd  wrong  side  of  the  Year, 

And  shuts  him  in,  with  storms,  and  cold,  and  wet, 

He  chearfully  does  his  past  labours  eat: 

O,  docs  he  so  ?  your  wise  example,  th'  Ant, 

Does  not  at  all  times  Rest,  and  Plenty  want. 

But  weighing  justly  'a  mortal  Ants  condition 

Divides  his  Life  'twixt  Labour  and  Fruition. 

Thee  neither  heat,  nor  storms,  nor  wet,  nor  cold 

From  thy  unnatural  diligence  can  withhold. 

To  th'  Indies  thou  wouldst  run  rather  then  see 

Another,  though  a  Friend,  Richer  then  Thee. 

Fond  man !   what  Good  or  Beauty  can  be  found 

In  heaps  of  Treasure  buried  under  ground  ? 

Which  rather  then  diminisht  e're  to  see 

Thou  wouldst  thy  self  too  buried  with  them  be: 

And  what's  the  difference,  is't  not  quite  as  bad 

Never  to  Use,  as  never  to  have  Had  ? 

In  thy  vast  Barns  millions  of  Quarters  store. 

Thy  Belly  for  all  that  will  hold  no  more 

Then  Mine  does;  every  Baker  makes  much  Bread, 

What  then?    He's  with  no  more  then  others  fed. 

Do  you  within  the  bounds  of  Nature  Live, 

And  to  augment  your  own  you  need  not  strive. 

One  hundred  Acres  will  no  less  for  you 

Your  Life's  whole  business  then  ten  thousand  do. 

But  pleasant 'tis  to  take  from  a  great  store; 

What,  Man?  though  you'r  resolv'd  to  take  no  more 

Then  I  do  from  a  small  one  ?    if  your  Will 

Be  but  a  Pitcher  or  a  Pot  to  fill. 


439 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

To  some  great  River  for  it  miut  you  eo. 

When  a  clear  ^ring  just  at  your  feet  does  flow  ? 

Give  me  the  Spring  which  docs  to  humane  use 

Safe,  easie,  and  untroubled  stores  produce. 

He  who  scorns  these,  and  needs  will  drink  at  Nik 

Must  run  the  danger  of  the  Crocodile, 

And  of  the  rapid  stream  it  self  which  may 

At  unawares  bear  him  perhaps  away. 

In  a  full  Flood  Tantalus  Stands,  his  skin 

Washt  o'rc  in  vain,  for  ever,  dry  within ; 

He  catches  at  the  Stream  with  greedy  lips. 

From  his  toucht  Mouth  the  wanton  Torment  slips: 

You  laugh  now,  and  expand  your  careful  brow; 

Tis  finely  said,  but  what's  all  this  to  you? 

Change  but  the  Name,  this  Fable  is  thy  Story, 

Thou  in  a  Flood  of  useless  Wealth  dost  Glory, 

Which  thou  canst  only  touch  but  never  taste; 

Th'  abundance  still,  and  still  the  want  does  last. 

The  Treasures  of  the  Gods  thou  wouldst  not  spare, 

But  when  thcy'r  made  thine  own,  they  Sacred  are. 

And  must  be  kept  with  reverence,  as  if  thou 

No  other  use  of  precious  Gold  didst  know. 

But  that  of  curious  Piiftures  to  delight 

With  the  fair  stamp  thy  f^irtueio  sight. 

The  only  true,  and  genuine  use  is  this, 

To  buy  the  tbings  which  Nature  cannot  miss 

Without  discomfort,  Oy!,  and  vital  Bread, 

And  Wine  by  which  the  Life  of  Life  is  fed. 

And  all  those  few  things  else  by  which  wc  live; 

All  that  remains  is  Giv'n  for  thee  to  Give; 

If  Cares  and  Troubles,  Envy,  Grief  and  Fear, 

The  bitter  Fruits  be,  which  fair  Riches  bear. 

If  a  new  Poverty  grow  out  of  store; 

The  old  plain  way,  ye  Gods,  let  me  be  Poor. 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 


A  Paraphrase  on  an  Ode  in  Horace's  third  Book^ 
beginning  thus^  Inclusam  Danaen  turns  ahenea. 

A  Tower  of  Brass,  one  would  have  said, 
And  Locks,  and  Bolts,  and  Iron  bars. 
And  Guards,  as  strict  as  in  the  heat  of  wars, 
Might  have  preserved  one  Innocent  Maiden-head. 
The  jealous  Father  thought  he  well  might  spare. 

All  further  jealous  Care, 
And  as  he  walkt,  t'  himself  alone  he  smil'd. 

To  think  how  Fenus  Arts  he  had  beguil'd; 

And  when  he  slept,  his  rest  was  deep. 
But  yenus  laugh'd  to  see  and  hear  him  sleep. 

She  taught  the  Amorous  Jove 

A  Magical  receit  in  Love, 
Which  arm'd  him  stronger,  and  which  help*d  him  more. 
Than  all  his  Thunder  did,  and  his  Almighty-ship  before. 

2. 

She  taught  him  Loves  Elixar,  by  which  Art, 
His  Godhead  into  Gold  he  did  convert. 

No  Guards  did  then  his  passage  stay. 

He  pass'd  with  ease;  Gold  was  the  Word; 
Subtle  as  Lightning,  bright  and  quick  and  fierce. 

Gold  through  Doors  and  Walls  did  pierce; 
And  as  that  works  sometimes  upon  the  sword. 

Melted  the  Maiden-head  away. 
Even  in  the  secret  scabbard  where  it  lay. 

The  prudent  Macedonian  King, 
To  blow  up  Towns,  a  Golden  Mine  did  spring. 

He  broke  through  Gates  with  this  PetaVj 
*Tis  the  great  Art  of  Peace,  the  Engine  'tis  of  War ; 

And  Fleets  and  Armies  follow  it  a&r. 
The  Ensign  'tis  at  Land,  and  'tis  the  Seamans  Star. 

441 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

3- 

Let  all  the  World,  slave  to  this  Tyrant  be, 
Creature  to  this  Disguised  Deitie, 

Yet  it  shall  never  conquer  me. 
A  Guard  of  Virtues  will  not  let  it  pass, 
And  wisdom  is  a  Tower  of  stronger  brass. 
The  Muses  Lawrel  round  my  Temples  spread, 
'T  does  from  this  Lightnings  force  secure  my  head. 

Nor  will  I  lift  it  up  so  high. 
As  in  the  violent  Meteors  way  to  lye. 
Wealth  for  its  power  do  we  honour  and  adore  i 
The  things  we  hate,  ill  Fate,  and  Death,  have  more. 

From  Towns  and  Courts,  Camps  of  the  Rich  and  Great, 
The  vast  Xerxean  Army  I  retreat. 
And  to  the  small  Laconick  forces  fly. 

Which  hold  the  straights  of  roverty. 
Sellars  and  Granaries  in  vain  we  fill. 

With  all  the  bounteous  Summers  store. 
If  the  Mind  thirst  and  hunger  still. 

The  poor  rich  Man's  emphatically  poor. 

Slaves  to  the  things  we  too  much  prize. 
We  Masters  grow  of  all  that  we  despise. 

5- 

A  Field  of  Corn,  a  Fountain  and  a  Wood, 

Is  all  the  Wealth  by  Nature  understood. 
The  Monarch  on  whom  fertile  Nile  bestows 

All  which  that  grateful  Earth  can  bear, 

Deceives  himse[l]f,  if  he  suppose 
That  more  than  this  falls  to  his  share. 
Whatever  an  Estate  does  beyond  this  afford, 

Is  not  a  rent  paid  to  the  Lord; 
But  is  a  Tax  illegal  and  unjust. 
Exacted  from  it  by  the  Tyrant  Lust. 

Much  will  always  wanting  be. 

To  him  who  much  desires.     Thrice  happy  He 
To  whom  the  wise  indulgency  of  Heaven, 

With  sparing  hand,  but  just  enough  has  given. 

442 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 


[8.]  The  dangers  of  an  Honest  man  in  much  Company. 

IF  twenty  thousand  naked  Americans  were  not  able  to  resist 
the  assaults  of  but  twenty  well-armed  Spaniards^  I  see  little 
possibility  for  one  Honest  man  to  defend  himself  against  twenty 
thousand  Knaves, who  are  all  fiirnisht  Cap  ape^vfith  the  defensive 
arms  of  worldly  prudence,  and  the  offensive  too  of  craft  and 
malice.  He  will  find  no  less  odds  than  this  against  him,  if  he 
have  much  to  do  in  humane  affairs.  The  only  advice  therefore 
which  I  can  give  him,  is,  to  be  sure  not  to  venture  his  person 
any  longer  in  the  open  Campagn,  to  retreat  and  entrench 
himself,  to  stop  up  all  Avenues,  and  draw  up  all  bridges  against 
so  numerous  an  Enemy.  The  truth  of  it  is,  that  a  man  in 
much  business  must  either  make  himself  a  Knave,  or  else  the 
world  will  make  him  a  Fool :  and  if  the  injury  went  no  farther 
then  the  being  laught  at,  a  wise  man  would  content  himself 
with  the  revenge  of  retaliation ;  but  the  case  is  much  worse,  for 
these  civil  Cannibals  too,  as  well  as  the  wild  ones,  not  only 
dance  about  such  a  taken  stranger,  but  at  last  devour  him. 
A  sober  man  cannot  get  too  soon  out  of  drunken  company, 
though  they  be  never  so  kind  and  merry  among  themselves,  'tis 
not  impleasant  only,  but  dangerous  to  him.  Do  ye  wonder 
that  a  vertuous  man  should  love  to  be  alone  ?  It  is  hard  for  him 
to  be  otherwise;  he  is  so,  when  he  is  among  ten  thousand: 
neither  is  the  Solitude  so  uncomfortable  to  be  alone  without 
any  other  creature,  as  it  is  to  be  alone,  in  the  midst  of  wild 
Beasts.  Man  is  to  man  all  kinde  of  Beasts,  a  fauning  Dog, 
a  roaring  Lion,  a  theiving  Fox,  a  robbing  Wolf,  a  dissembling 
Crocodile,  a  treacherous  Decoy,  and  a  rapacious  Vulture.  The 
civilest,  methinks,  of  all  Nations,  are  those  whom  we  account 
the  most  barbarous,  there  is  some  moderation  and  good  Nature 
in  the  Toupinambaltians  who  eat  no  men  but  their  Enemies, 
whilst  we  learned  and  polite  and  Christian  Europeansy  like  so 
many  Pikes  and  Sharks  prey  upon  every  thing  that  we  can 
swallow.  It  is  the  great  boast  of  Eloquence  and  Philosophy, 
that  they  first  congregated  men  disperst,  united  them  into 
Societies,  and  built  up  the  Houses  and  the  walls  of  Cities. 

443 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

I  wish  they  could  unravel  all  they  had  wooven;  that  we 
might  have  our  Woods  and  our  Innocence  again  instead  of 
our  Castles  and  our  Policies.  They  have  assembled  many 
thousands  of  scattered  people  into  one  body:  'tis  true,  they 
have  done  so,  they  have  brought  them  together  into  Cities,  to 
cozen,  and  into  Armies  to  murder  one  another :  They  found 
them  Hunters  and  Fishers  of  wild  creatures,  they  have  made 
them  Hunters  and  Fishers  of  their  Brethren,  they  boast  to  have 
reduced  them  to  a  State  of  Peace,  when  the  truth  is,  they  have 
only  taught  them  an  Art  of  War;  they  have  framed,  I  must 
confess,  wholesome  laws  for  the  restraint  of  Vice,  but  they 
rais'd  first  that  Devil  which  now  they  Conjure  and  cannot  Bind; 
though  there  were  before  no  punishments  for  wickednes,  yet 
there  was  less  committed  because  there  were  no  Rewards  for  it. 
But  the  men  who  praise  Philosophy  from  this  Topick  are 
much  deceived;  let  Oratory  answer  for  it  self,  the  tinckling 

ferhaps  of  that  may  unite  a  Swarm :  it  never  was  the  work  of 
'hilosophy  to  assemble  multitudes,  but  to  regulate  onely,  and 
govern  them  when  they  were  assembled,  to  make  the  best  of 
an  evil,  and  bring  them,  as  much  as  is  possible,  to  Unity  again. 
Avarice  and  Ambition  only  were  the  first  Builders  of  Towns, 
G4M,  XI.  4.  and  Founders  of  Empire ;  They  said.  Go  tOy  let  us  build  us  a 
City  and  a  Tower  whose  top  may  reach  unto  heaven^  and  Ut  us 
make  us  a  name^  least  we  be  scattered  abroad  upon  the  face  of  the 
Earth,  What  was  the  beginning  of  Romey  the  Metropolis  of 
all  the  World  ?  what  was  it,  but  a  concourse  of  Theives,  and 
a  Sandtuary  of  Criminals  ?  it  was  justly  named  by  the  Augury 
of  no  less  then  twelve  Vultures,  and  the  Founder  cimented 
his  walls  with  the  blood  of  his  Brother ;  not  unlike  to  this  was 
the  beginning  even  of  the  first  Town  too  in  the  world,  and 
such  is  the  Original  sin  of  most  Cities :  their  Adtual  encrease 
daily  with  their  Age  and  growth ;  the  more  people,  the  more 
wicked  all  of  them ;  every  one  brings  in  his  part  to  enflame  the 
contagion,  which  becomes  at  last  so  universal  and  so  strong 
that  no  Precepts  can  be  sufficient  Preservatives,  nor  any  thing 
secure  our  safety,  but  flight  from  among  the  Infedlecf.  Wc 
ought  in  the  choice  of  a  Scituation  to  regard  above  all  things 
the  Healthfiilness  of  the  place,  and  the  healthfiilness  of  it  for 
the  Mind  rather  than  for  the  Body.  But  suppose  (which  is 
hardly  to  be  supposed)  we  had  Antidote  enough  against  this 

444 


ESSAYS,    IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

Poison  j  nay,  suppose  farther,  we  were  alwaies  and  at  all  pieces 
armed  and  provided  both  against  the  Assaults  of  Hostility, 
and  the  Mines  of  Treachery, 'twill  yet  be  but  an  uncomfortable 
life  to  be  ever  in  Alarms,  though  we  were  compast  round  with 
Fire,  to  defend  ourselves  from  wild  Beasts,  the  Lodging  would 
be  unpleasant,  because  we  must  always  be  obliged  to  watch  that 
fire,  and  to  fear  no  less  the  defefls  of  our  Guard,  then  the 
diligences  of  our  Enemy.  The  summe  of  this  is,  that  a 
virtuous  man  is  in  danger  to  be  trod  upon  and  destroyed  in 
the  crowd  of  his  Contraries,  nay,  which  is  worse,  to  be  changed 
and  corrupted  by  them,  and  that  'tis  impossible  to  escape  both 
these  inconveniences  without  so  much  caution,  as  will  take 
away  the  whole  Quiet,  that  is,  the  Happiness  of  his  Life.  Ye 
see  then,  what  he  may  lose,  but,  I  pray.  What  can  he  get 
there  ?  Quid  Ram^  faciam  ?  Mrniiri  nndo.  What  should  a  ?"=■  -» 
man  of  truth  and  honesty  do  at  Rome  ?  he  can  neither  under- 
stand, nor  speak  the  Language  of  the  place;  a  naked  man  may 
swim  in  the  Sea,  but  'tis  not  the  way  to  catch  Fish  there;  they 
are  likcHer  to  devour  him,  then  he  them,  if  he  bring  no  Nets, 
and  use  no  Deceits.  I  think  therefore  it  was  wise  and  friendly 
advice  which  Marliai  ga.ve  to  Fabian^  when  he  met  him  newiy 
arrived  at  Remi. 

Honest  and  Poor,  faithful  in  word  and  thought; 

What  has  thee,  Fabian,  to  the  City  brought  ? 

Thou  neither  the  B[u]fFoon,  nor  Bawd  canst  play. 

Nor  with  false  whispers  ih'  Innocent  betray: 

Nor  corrupt  Wives,  nor  from  rich  Beldams  get 

A  living  by  thy  industry  and  sweat; 

Nor  with  vain  promises  and  projefts  cheat, 

Nor  Bribe  or  Flatter  any   of  the  Great. 

But  you'r  a  Man  of  Learning,  prudent,  just; 

A  Man  of  Courage,  firm,  and  fit  for  trust. 

Why  you  may  stay,  and  live  uncnvyed  here; 

But  (faith)  go  back,  and  keep  you  where  you  were. 

Nay,  if  nothing  of  all  this  were  in  the  case,  yet  the  verj 
sight  of  Uncleanness  is  loathsome  to  the  Cleanly;  the  sight  of 
Foliy  and  Impiety  vexatious  to  the  Wise  and  Pious. 

Lutretius,  by  his  favour,  though  a  good  Poet;  was  but  an  t-ua 
ill-natur'd  Man,  when  he  said,  It  was  delightful  to  sec  other 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Men  in  a  great  storm :  And  no  less  ill-naturM  should  I  think 
Dimocritusy  who  laught  at  all  the  World,  but  that  he  retired 
himself  so  much  out  of  it,  that  we  may  perceive  he  took  no 
great  pleasure  in  that  kind  of  Mirth.  I  have  been  drawn  twice 
or  thrice  by  company  to  go  to  Bedlam^  and  have  seen  others 
very  much  delighted  with  the  fantastical  extravagancie  of  so 
many  various  madnesses,  which  upon  me  wrought  so  contrary 
an  eiFedl,  that  I  alwayes  returned,  not  onely  melancholy,  but 
ev'n  sick  with  the  sight.  My  compassion  there  was  perhaps 
too  tender,  for  I  meet  a  thousand  Madmen  abroad,  without 
any  perturbation ;  though,  to  weigh  the  matter  justly,  the  total 
loss  of  Reason  is  less  deplorable  then  the  total  depravation  of  it. 
An  exad  Judge  of  human  blessings,  of  Riches,  Honours,  Beauty, 
even  of  Wit  it  self,  should  pity  the  abuse  of  them  more  then  the 
want. 

Briefly,  though  a  wise  man  could  pass  never  so  securely 
through  the  great  Roads  of  human  Life,  yet  he  will  meet 
perpetually  with  so  many  objects  and  occasions  of  compassion, 
grief,  shame,  anger,  hatred,  indignation,  and  all  passions  but 
envy  (for  he  will  find  nothing  to  deserve  that)  that  he  had 
better  strike  into  some  private  path ;  nay,  go  so  far,  if  he  could, 
out  of  the  common  way,  Vt  nee  faSla  audiat  Pelopidarum ;  that 
he  might  not  so  much  as  hear  of  the  aftions  of  the  Sons  of 
Adam.  But,  Whither  shall  we  flye  then?  into  the  Deserts, 
Hke  the  antient  Hermites  ? 

Metani.  i.  Q^^^  ^^''f^  P^}^^  fi^^  regnat  Erynnisj 

In  facinus  jurasse  putes. 

One  would  think  that  all  Mankind  had  bound  themselves 
by  an  Oath  to  do  all  the  wickedness  they  can ;  that  they  had  all 
(as  the  Scripture  speaks)  sold  themselves  to  Sin :  the  difference 
onely  is,  that  some  are  a  little  more  crafty  (and  but  a  little  God 
knows)  in  making  of  the  bargain.  I  thought  when  I  went 
first  to  dwell  in  the  Country,  that  without  doubt  I  should  have 
met  there  with  the  simplicity  of  the  old  Poetical  Golden  Age: 
I  thought  to  have  found  no  Inhabitants  there,  but  such  as  the 
Shepherds  of  Sir  Phil,  Sydney  in  Arcadioy  or  of  Monsieur  d^Urfe 
upon  the  Banks  of  Lignon  ;  and  began  to  consider  with  my  self, 
which  way  I  might  recommend  no  less  to  Posterity  the  Happi- 
ness and  Innocence  of  the  Men  of  Chertsea :  but  to  confess  the 

446 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

truth,  I  perceived  quickly,  by  infallible  demonstrations,  that 
I  was  still  in  Old  England^  and  not  in  Arcadia^  or  La  Forrest ; 
that  if  I  could  not  content  my  self  with  any  thing  less  then 
exa£t  Fidelity  in  human  conversation,  I  had  almost  as  good  go 
back  and  seek  for  it  in  the  Court,  or  the  Exchange,  or  West- 
minster-Hall. I  ask  again  then  Whither  shall  we  fly,  or  what 
shall  we  do  ?  The  World  may  so  come  in  a  Mans  way, 
that  he  cannot  choose  but  Salute  it,  he  must  take  heed  though 
not  to  go  a  whoring  after  it.  If  by  any  lawful  Vocation,  or 
just  necessity  men  happen  to  be  Married  to  it,  I  can  onely  give 
them  St.  Pauls  advice.  Brethreriy  the  time  is  shorty  it  remaines  i  Cor.  7.  25 
that  they  that  have  IVives  be  as  though  they  had  none.  But  I  would  Vene  7. 
that  all  Men  were  even  as  I  my  self. 

In  all  cases  they  must  be  sure  that  they  do  Mundum  ducere^ 
and  not  Mundo  nubere.  They  must  retain  the  Superiority  and 
Headship  over  it :  Happy  are  they  who  can  get  out  of  the  sight 
of  this  Deceitful  Beauty,  that  they  may  not  be  led  so  much  as 
into  Temptation  ;  who  have  not  onely  quitted  the  Metropolis, 
but  can  abstain  from  ever  seeing  the  next  Market  Town  of  their 
Country. 


C/audian's  Old  Man  of  Verona. 

HAppy  the  Man,  who  his  whole  time  doth  bound 
Within  th'  enclosure  of  his  little  ground. 
Happy  the  Man,  whom  the  same  humble  place, 
(Th*  hereditary  Cottle  of  his  Race) 
From  his  first  rising  infancy  has  known. 
And  by  degrees  sees  gently  bending  down. 
With  natural  propension  to  that  Earth 
Which  both  preserv'd  his  Life,  and  gave  him  birth. 
Him  no  false  distant  lights  by  fortune  set. 
Could  ever  into  foolish  wandrings  get. 
He  never  dangers  either  saw,  or  fear'd: 
The  dreadful  stormes  at  Sea  he  never  heard. 
He  never  heard  the  shrill  allarms  of  War, 
Or  the  worse  noises  of  the  Lawyers  Bar. 

447 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

No  chanee  of  Consuls  marks  to  him  the  year. 

The  change  of  season,  i.  his  Calendar. 

The  Cold  and  Heat,  Winter  and  Summer  shows, 

Autumn  by  Fruits,  and  Spring  by  Flow'rs  he  knows. 

He  measures  Time  by  Land-marks,  and  has  found 

For  the  whole  day  the  Dial  of  his  ground. 

A  neighbouring  Wood  born  with  himself  he  sees, 

And  loves  his  old  contemporary  Trees. 

H'as  only  heard  of  near  yerona^s  Name, 

And  knows  it  like  the  Indies^  but  by  Fame. 

Does  with  a  like  concernment  notice  take 

Of  the  Red-Sea,  and  of  Benacus  Lake. 

Thus  Health  and  Strength  he  to*  a  third  age  enjoyes, 

And  sees  a  long  Posterity  of  Boys. 

About  the  spacious  World  let  others  roam, 

The  Voyage  Life  is  longest  made  at  home. 


9.      I'he  shortness  of  Life  and  uncertainty  of  Riches. 

IF  you  should  sec  a  man  who  were  to  cross  from  Dover  to 
Calaisj  run  about  very  busie  and  soUicitous,  and  trouble 
himselfe  many  weeks  before  in  making  provisions  for  his  voyage, 
would  you  commend  him  for  a  cautious  and  discreet  person,  or 
laugh  at  him  for  a  timerous  and  impertinent  Coxcomb  ?  A  man 
who  is  excessive  in  his  pains  and  diligence,  and  who  consumes 
the  greatest  part  of  his  time  in  furnishing  the  remainder  with 
all  conveniencies  and  even  superfluities,  is  to  Angels  and  wise 
men  no  less  ridiculous ;  he  does  as  little  consider  the  shortness  of 
his  passage  that  he  might  proportion  his  cares  accordingly.  It 
is,  alas,  so  narrow  a  streight  betwixt  the  Womb  and  the  Grave, 
that  it  might  be  called  the  Pas  de  Vie^  as  well  as  that  the  Pas 
de  Calais.  We  are  all  ^E<f>ijfjL€pot  (as  Pindar  calls  us)  Creatines 
of  a  day,  and  therefore  our  Saviour  bounds  our  desires  to  that 
little  space ;  as  if  it  were  very  probable  that  every  day  should 
be  our  last,  we  are  taught  to  demand  even  Bread  tor  no  longer 
a  time.  The  Sun  ought  not  to  set  upon  our  Covetousness  no 
more  then  upon  our  Anger,  but  as  to  God  Almighty  a  thousand 
years  are  as  one  day,  so  in  direA  opposition,  one  day  to  the 

448 


ESSAYS,  IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

covetous  man  is  as  a  thousand  years ;  Tarn  brevifortis  jaculatur 
4evo  multay  so  far  he  shoots  beyond  his  Butt :  One  would  think 
he  were  of  the  opinion  of  the  Millenaries^  and  hoped  for  so 
long  a  Reign  upon  Earth.  The  Patriarchs  before  the  Flood, 
who  enjoy'd  almost  such  a  Life,  made,  we  are  sure,  less  stores 
for  the  maintaining  of  it ;  they  who  lived  Nine  hundred  years 
scarcely  provided  for  a  few  davs ;  we  who  live  but  a  few  days, 
provide  at  least  for  Nine  hundred  years ;  what  a  strange  altera- 
tion is  this  of  Humane  Life  and  Manners  ?  and  yet  we  see  an 
imitation  of  it  in  every  mans  particular  experience,  for  we  begin 
not  the  cares  of  Life  till  it  be  half  spent,  and  still  encrease  them 
as  that  decreases.  What  is  there  among  the  adions  of  Beasts 
so  illogical  and  repugnant  to  Reason  ?  when  they  do  any  thing 
which  seems  to  proceed  from  that  which  we  call  Reason,  we 
disdain  to  allow  them  that  perfection,  and  attribute  it  only  to  a 
Natural  Instin£t ;  and  are  not  we  Fools  too  by  the  same  kind  of 
Instin£t  ?  If  we  could  but  learn  to  number  our  days  (as  we  are 
taught  to  pray  that  we  might)  we  should  adjust  much  better  our 
other  accounts,  but  whilst  we  never  consider  an  end  of  them, 
it  is  no  wonder  if  our  cares  for  them  be  without  end  too. 
Horace  advises  very  wisely,  and  in  excellent  good  words,  spado 
brevi  spent  longam  resecesj  From  a  short  Life  cut  off  all  Hopes 
that  grow  too  long.  They  must  be  primed  away  like  suckers 
that  choak  the  Mother-Plant,  and  hinder  it  from  bearing  fruit. 
And  in  another  place  to  the  same  sence,  f^it[it]  summa  brevis 
spem  nos  vetat  inc[h]oare  longam^  which  Seneca  does  not  mend  when 
he  says,  Ob  quanta  dementia  est  spes  longas  inchoantium  I  but  he 
gives  an  example  there  of  an  acquaintance  of  his  named  Semcioy 
who  from  a  very  mean  beginning  by  great  industry  in  turning 
about  of  Money  through  all  ways  of  gain,  had  attained  to  extra- 
ordinary Riches  but  died  on  a  suddain  after,  having  supped 
merrily.  In  ipso  aSiu  beni  cedentium  rerum^  in  ipso  procurrentis 
firtume  impetUy  In  the  fiill  course  of  his  good  Fortune,  when 
she  had  a  high  Tide  and  a  stiff  Gale  and  all  her  Sails  on ;  upon 
which  occasion  he  cries,  out  of  Firgil 

Insere  nunc  Melib[ce'\e  PyroSy  pone  ordine  vitesy 

Go  Melih\ce]uSy  now. 

Go  graff  thy  Orchards  and  thy  Vineyards  plant; 

Behold  the  Fruit ! 

c.  II.  FF  449 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

For  this  Sentcia  I  have  no  compasaon,  because  he  was  taken 
as  wc  say,  in  ipio  faSa,  still  labouring  in  the  work  of  Avarice, 
but  the  poor  rich  man  in  St.  Luit  (whose  case  was  not  like 
this)  I  could  pity,  methinks,  if  the  Scripture  would  permit  me, 
for  he  seems  to  have  been  satisfied  at  last,  he  confesses  he  had 
enough  for  many  ycais,  he  bids  his  soul  take  its  case,  and  yet  for 
,.  all  that,  God  says  to  him  :  Tim  Fool,  this  night  thy  tnil  tball  it 
rtquirtd  of  thee,  and  the  things  thou  hast  laid  up,  whom  shall 
they  belong  to  ?  where  shall  we  find  the  causes  of  this  bitter 
Reproach  and  terrible  Judgement  ?  we  may  find,  I  think,  Two^ 
and  God  perhaps  saw  more.  First,  that  he  did  not  intend  true 
Rest  to  his  Soul,  but  only  to  change  the  employments  of  it 
from  Avarice  to  Luxury,  his  design  is  to  eat  and  to  drink,  aad 
to  be  merry.  Secondly,  that  he  went  on  too  long  before  he 
thought  of  resting  ;  the  fulness  of  his  old  Barns  had  not  sufficed 
him,  he  would  stay  till  he  was  forced  to  build  new  ones ;  and 
God  meted  out  to  him  in  the  same  measure ;  Since  he  would 
have  more  Riches  then  his  Life  could  contain,  God  destroy'd 
his  Life  and  gave  the  Fruits  of  it  to  another. 

Thus  God  takes  away  sometimes  the  Man  from  his  Richer 
and  no  less  frequently  Riches  from  the  Man  ;  what  hope  can 
there  be  of  such  a  Marriage,  where  both  parties  are  so  fickle 
and  uncertain  i  by  what  Bonds  can  such  a  couple  be  kept  long 
together  I 

I. 
Why  dost  thou  heap  up  Wealth,  which  thou  must  quit, 

Or,  what  is  worse,  be  left  by  it } 
Why  dost  thou  load  thy  self,  when  thou'rt  to  flie, 
Oh  Man  ordain'd  to  die  i 

2. 

Why  dost  thou  build  up  sUlcly  Rooms  on  higji, 
Thou  who  art  under  Ground  to  lie  i 

Thou  Sow'st  and  Plantcst,  but  no  Fruit  must  see. 
For  Death,  alas  !  is  sowing  Thee. 

3- 
Suppose,  thou  Fortune  couldst  to  tameness  bring. 

And  clip  or  pinion  her  wing; 
Suppose  thou  couldst  on  Fate  so  fiir  prevail 

As  not  to  cut  off  thy  Entail. 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE   AND   PROSE 

4- 
Yet  Death  at  all  that  subtiltv  will  laugh, 

Death  will  that  foolish  Gardner  mock. 
Who  does  a  slieht  and  annual  Plant  engraff, 

Upon  a  lasting  stock. 

5- 
Thou  dost  thy  self  Wise  and  Industrious  deem ; 

A  mighty  Husband  thou  wouldst  seem ; 
Fond  Man  !   like  a  bought  slave,  thou  all  the  while 

Dost  but  for  others  Sweat  and  Toil. 

6. 

OfScious  Fool !    that  needs  must  medling  be 

In  business  that  concerns  not  thee  ! 
For  when  to  Future  years  thou'  extendst  thy  cares 

Thou  deal'st  in  other  mens  afiairs. 

7- 
Even  ag^  men,  as  if  they  truly  were 

Children  again,  for  Age  prepare. 
Provisions  for  long  travail  they  design. 

In  the  last  point  of  their  short  Line. 

8. 

Wisely  the  Ant  against  poor  Winter  hoords 

The  stock  which  Summers  wealth  aflR>rds, 

In  Grashoppers  that  must  at  Autumn  die. 
How  vain  were  such  an  Industry? 

9- 
Of  Power  and  Honour  the  deceitful  Light 

Might  halfe  excuse  our  cheated  sight. 
If  it  of  Life  the  whole  small  time  would  stay, 

And  be  our  Sim-shine  all  the  day, 

10. 

Like  Lightning  that,  begot  but  in  a  Cloud 

(Though  shining  bright,  and  speaking  loud) 

Whilst  it  begins,  concludes  its  violent  Race, 

And  where  it  Guilds,  it  wounds  the  place. 

FF  2  451 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

II. 

Oh  Scene  of  Fortune,  which  dost  fiiir  appear, 
Only  to  men  that  stand  not  near ! 

Proud  Poverty,  that  Tinsel  brav'ry  wears  ! 

And,  like  a  Rainbow,  Painted  Tears  ! 

12. 

Be  prudent,  and  the  shore  in  prosped  keep, 
In  a  weak  Boat  trust  not  the  deep. 

Plac'd  beneath  Envy,  above  envyinc;  rise ; 

Pity  Great  Men,  Great  Things  despise. 

The  wise  example  of  the  Heavenly  Lark, 
Thy  Fellow-Poet,  Cowley  mark. 

Above  the  Clouds  let  thy  proud  Musique  sound, 
Thy  humble  Nest  build  on  the  Ground. 


lo.     The  danger  of  Procrastination. 

A  Letter  to  Mr,  S.  L. 

Am  glad  that  you  approve  and  applaud  my  design,  of  vnth- 
drawing  my  self  from  all  tumult  and  business  of  the  world ; 
and  consecrating  the  little  rest  of  my  time  to  those  studies,  to 
which  Nature  had  so  Motherly  inclined  me,  and  from  which 
Fortune,  like  a  Step-mother  has  so  long  detained  me.  But  never- 
Nprati  theless  (you  say,  which,  Buty  is  Mrugo  mera^  a  rust  which  spoils 
the  gooa  Metjil  it  grows  upon.  But  you  say)  you  would  advise 
me  not  to  precipitate  that  resolution,  but  to  stay  a  while  longer 
with  patience  and  complaisance,  till  I  had  gotten  such  an  Estate 
as  might  afford  me  (according  to  the  saving  of  that  person  whom 
you  and  I  love  very  much,  and  would  believe  as  soon  as  another 
man)  Cum  dignitate  otium.  This  were  excellent  advice  to  7tf«tf, 
who  could  bid  the  Sun  stay  too.  But  there's  no  fooling  with  Life 
when  it  is  once  turn'd  beyond  Forty.  The  seeking  for  a  Fortune 
then,  is  but  a  desperate  After-game,  'tis  a  hundred  to  one,  if  a 
man  fling  two  Sixes  and  recover  all ;  especially,  if  his  hand  be  no 
luckier  than  mine.     There  is  some  help  for  all  the  defe^  of 

45a 


I 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

Fortiine,  for  if  a  man  cannot  attain  to  the  length  of  his  wishes, 
he  may  have  his  Remedy  by  cutting  of  them  shorter.  Epicurus 
writes  a  Letter  to  Idomeneas  (who  was  then  a  very  powerful, 
wealthy,  and  (it  seems)  bountiful  person)  to  recommend  to 
Him  who  had  made  so  many  men  Rich,  one  PythocleSy  a  fnend 
of  his,  whom  he  desired  might  be  made  a  rich  man  too ;  But  I 
intreat  you  that  you  would  not  do  it  just  the  same  way  at 
you  have  done  to  many  less  deserving  persons,  but  in  the  most 
Gentlemanly  manner  of  obliging  him,  which  is  not  to  adde  any 
thing  to  his  Estate,  but  to  take  something  from  his  desires.  The 
summ  of  this  is.  That  for  the  uncertain  hopes  of  some  Con- 
veniences we  ought  not  to  defer  the  execution  of  a  work  that  is 
Necessary,  especially,  when  the  use  of  those  things  which  we 
would  stay  for,  may  otherwise  be  supplyed,  but  the  loss  of  time, 
never  recovered :  Nay,  farther  yet,  though  we  were  sure  to  obtain 
all  that  we  had  a  mind  to,  though  we  were  sure  of  getting  never 
so  much  by  continuing  the  Game,  yet  when  the  light  of  Life  is 
so  near  gomg  out,  and  ought  to  be  so  precious,  Lejeu  ne  vaut  pas 
la  ChandeU^  The  play  is  not  worth  the  expence  of  the  Candle  : 
after  having  been  long  tost  in  a  Tempest,  if  our  Masts  be  standing, 
and  we  have  still  Sail  and  Tackling  enough  to  carry  us  to  our 
Port,  it  is  no  matter  for  the  want  of  Streamers  and  Top-Gallants ; 
Utere  velisy  Totos  pande  sinus.  A  Gentleman  in  our  late  Civil 
Wars,  when  his  Quarters  were  beaten  up  by  the  Enemy,  was 
taken  Prisoner,  and  lost  his  life  afterwards,  only  by  staying  to 
put  on  a  Band,  and  adjust  his  Periwig :  He  would  escape  like  a 
person  of  quality,  or  not  at  all,  and  dyed  the  noble  Martyr  of 
Ceremony,  and  Grentility.  I  think  your  counsel  of  Festina  lente 
is  as  ill  to  a  man  who  is  flying  from  the  world,  as  it  would  have 
been  to  that  unfortunate  wel-bred  Gentleman,  who  was  so 
cautious  as  not  to  fly  undecently  from  his  Enemies,  and  there- 
fore I  prefer  Horace* s  advice  before  yours. 

—  Sapere  Aude^  Incipe  — 

Begin  ;  the  Getting  out  of  doors  is  the  greatest  part  of  the  ^^J^** 
Journey.     Farro  teaches  us  that  Latin  Proverb,  Portam  itineri 
bngissimam  esse :  But  to  return  to  Horace^ 

—  Sapere  aude^ 

Incipe^  vivendi  qui  reSfe  prorogat  horam 
Rusticus  expeSfat  dum  labitur  Amnisj  at  ille 
Lahiturj  (^  labetur  in  omne  volubilis  ovum. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Begin,  be  bold,  and  venture  to  be  wise; 

He  who  defers  this  work  from  day  to  day, 

Does  on  a  Rivers  Bank  expelling  stay, 

Till  the  whole  stream,  which  stopt  him,  should  be  gon. 

That  runs,  and  as  it  runs,  forever  will  run  on. 

Csesar  (the  man  of  Expedition  above  all  others)  was  so  far 
from  this  Folly,  that  whensoever,  in  a  journey  he  was  to  cross 
any  River,  he  never  went  one  foot  out  of  his  way  for  a  Bridge, 
or  a  Foord,  or  a  Ferrv,  but  flung  himself  into  it  immediately,  sund 
swam  over ;  and  this  is  the  course  we  ought  to  imitate,  if  we 
meet  with  any  stops  in  our  way  to  Happiness.  Stay  till  the 
waters  are  low,  stay  till  some  Boats  come  bv  to  transport  you, 
stay  till  a  Bridge  be  built  for  you  ;  You  had  even  as  good  stay 
till  the  River  be  quite  past.  Persius  (who,  you  use  to  say,  you 
do  not  know  whether  he  be  a  good  Poet  or  no,  because  you 
cannot  understand  him,  and  whom  therefore  (I  say)  I  know  to  be 
not  a  good  Poet)  has  an  odd  expression  of  these  rrocrastinators, 
which,  methinks,  is  full  of  Fancy. 

^*rt.  yam  Cras  Histernum  consumpsimus^  Ecce  aliud  Cras 

Satyr.  5.  1?        %    l 

hgertt  DOS  annos. 

Our  Yesterdays  To  morrow  now  is  gone. 
And  still  a  new  Tomorrow  does  come  on, 
We  by  Tomorrows  draw  up  all  our  store. 
Till  the  exhausted  Well  can  yield  no  more. 

And  now,  I  think,  I  am  even  with  you,  for  your  Otium  cum 
dignitate^  and  Festina  Untey  and  three  or  four  other  more  of  your 
New  Latinc  Sentences  :  if  I  should  draw  upon  you  all  my 
forces  out  of  Seneca  and  Plutarch  upon  this  subjedl,  I  should  over- 
whelm you,  but  I  leave  those  as  Triary  for  your  next  charge. 
I  shall  only  give  you  now  a  light  skirmish  out  of  an  Epigram- 
matist, your  special  good  Friend,  and  so,  Vale. 


Mart.  Lib.  5.     Epigr.  59. 

To  morrow  you  will  Live,  you  always  cry  ; 
In  what  far  Country  does  this  morrow  lye. 
That  'tis  so  mighty  long  'ere  it  arrive  ? 
Beyond  xh^  Indies  &o«^  t.\\\&  M.Qrrow  live  ? 

454 


ESSAYS,   IN  VERSE  AND   PROSE 

'Tis  so  far  fctcht  this  Morrow,  that  I  fear 

'Twill  be  both  very  Old  and  very  Dear. 

To  morrow  I  will  live,  the  Fool  does  say ; 

To  Day  it  selPs  too  Late,  the  wise  liv'd  Yesterday. 

Mart.  Lib,  2.     Ep.  90. 

Wonder  not.  Sir  (you  who  instru£t  the  Town 

In  the  true  Wisdom  of  the  Sacred  Gown) 

Tliat  I  make  haste  to  live,  and  cannot  hold 

Patiently  out,  till  I  grow  Rich  and  Old. 

Life  for  Delays  and  Doubts  no  time  does  give. 

None  ever  yet,  made  Haste  enough  to  Live. 

Let  him  defer  it,  whose  preposterous  care 

Omits  himself,  and  reaches  to  his  Heir. 

Who  does  his  Fathers  boimded  stores  despise, 

And  whom  his  own  too  never  can  suffice : 

My  humble  thoughts  no  glittering  roofs  require. 

Or  Rooms  that  shine  with  ought  but  constant  Fire. 

I  well  content  the  Avarice  of  my  sight 

With  the  fair  guildings  of  refle£led  Light : 

Pleasures  abroad,  the  sport  of  Nature  yeilds 

Her  living  Fountains,  and  her  smiling  Fields : 

And  then  at  home,  wha[t]  pleasure  is't  to  see 

A  little  cleanly  chearful  Familie  ? 

Which  if  a  chast  Wife  crown,  no  less  in  Her 

Then  Fortune,  I  the  Golden  Mean  prefer. 

Too  noble,  nor  too  wise,  she  should  not  be. 

No,  not  too  Rich,  too  Fair,  too  fond  of  me. 

Thus  let  my  life  slide  silently  away. 

With  Sleep  all  Night,  and  Quiet  all  the  Day. 


II.     Of  My  self. 

IT  is  a  hard  and  nice  Subje£t  for  a  man  to  write  of  himself,  it 
grates  his  own  heart  to  say  any  thing  of  disparagement,  and 
the  Readers  Fares  to  hear  any  thing  of  praise  from  him.  There 
is  no  danger  from  me  of  offending  him  in  this  kind ;  neither  my 

455 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Mind,  nor  my  Body,  nor  my  Fortune,  allow  me  any  materials 
for  that  Vanity.  It  is  sufficient,  for  my  own  contentment,  that 
they  have  preserved  me  from  being  scandalous,  or  remarkable  on 
the  defective  side.  But  besides  that,  I  shall  here  speak  of  myself, 
only  in  relation  to  the  subjedt  of  these  precedent  discourses,  and 
shall  be  likelier  thereby  to  fidl  into  the  contempt,  then  rise  up 
to  the  estimation  of  most  people.  As  far  as  my  Memory  can 
return  back  into  my  past  Life,  before  I  knew,  or  was  capable 
of  guessing  what  the  world,  or  glories,  or  business  of  it  were, 
the  natural  afFedlions  of  my  soul  gave  me  a  secret  bent  of 
aversion  from  them,  as  some  Plants  are  said  to  turn  away  from 
others,  by  an  Antipathy  imperceptible  to  themselves,  and  in- 
scrutable to  mans  understanding.  Even  when  I  was  a  very 
youne  Boy  at  School,  instead  or  running  about  on  Holy-daies 
and  playing  with  my  fellows ;  I  was  wont  to  steal  from  them, 
and  walk  into  the  fields,  either  alone  with  a  Book,  or  with  some 
one  Companion,  if  I  could  find  anv  of  the  same  temper.  I  was 
then  too,  so  much  an  Enemy  to  all  constraint,  that  my  Masters 
could  never  prevail  on  me,  by  any  perswasions  or  encourage- 
ments, to  learn  without  Book  the  common  rules  of  Grammar, 
in  which  they  dispensed  with  me  alone,  because  they  found  I 
made  a  shift  to  do  the  usual  exercise  out  of  my  own  reading  and 
observation.  That  I  was  then  of  the  same  mind  as  I  am  now 
(which  I  confess,  I  wonder  at  my  self)  may  appear  by  the  latter 
end  of  an  Ode,  which  I  made  when  I  was  but  thirteen  years 
old,  and  which  was  then  printed  with  many  other  Verses.  The 
Beginning  of  it  is  Boyish,  but  of  this  part  which  I  here  set  down 
(if  a  very  little  were  corredted)  I  should  hardly  now  be  much 
ashamed. 


This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lye 
Too  low  for  Envy,  for  Contempt  too  high. 

Some  Honor  I  would  have 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone. 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known. 

Rumour  can  ope'  the  Grave, 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  Friends. 

456 


ESSAYS,   IN    VERSE   AND    PROSE 


lO. 

Books  should,  not  business  entertain  the  Light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  Death,  the  Night. 

My  House  a  Cottage,  more 
Then  Palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  Use,  no  Luxury. 

My  Garden  painted  o're 
With  Natures  hand,  not  Arts ;   and  pleasures  yeild, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

II. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  Lifes  fading  space. 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight. 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  State, 
I  would  not  fear  nor  wish  my  fate. 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To  morrow  let  my  Sun  his  beams  display. 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them  ;    I  have  liv'd  to  Day. 

You  may  see  by  it,  I  was  even  then  acquainted  with  the  Poets 
(for  the  Conclusion  is  taken  out  of  Horace ;)  and  perhaps  it  was 
the  immature  and  immoderate  love  of  them  which  stampt  first, 
or  rather  engraved  these  Characters  in  me  :  They  were  like 
Letters  cut  into  the  Bark  of  a  young  Tree,  which  with  the 
Tree  still  grow  proportionably.  cut,  how  this  love  came  to  be 
produced  in  me  so  early,  is  a  hard  question  :  I  believe  I  can  tell 
the  particular  little  chance  that  filled  my  head  first  with  such 
Chimes  of  Verse,  as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there  :  For  I 
remember  when  I  began  to  read,  and  to  take  some  pleasure  in 
it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my  Mothers  Parlour  (I  know  not  by 
what  accident,  for  she  her  self  never  in  her  life  read  any  Book 
but  of  Devotion)  but  there  was  wont  to  lie  Spencers  Works ; 
this  I  happened  to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with 
the  Stories  of  the  Knights,  and  Giants,  and  Monsters,  and  brave 
Houses,  which  I  found  every  where  there :  (Though  my  under- 
standing had  little  to  do  with  all  this)  and  by  degrees  with  the 
tinckling  of  the  Rhyme  and  Dance  of  the  Numbers,  so  that  I 
think  I  had  read  him  all  over  before  I  was  twelve  years  old,  and 

457 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

was  thus  made  a  Poet  as  immediately  as  a  Child  is  made  an 
Eunuch.  With  these  afiedtions  of  mmd,  and  my  heart  wholly 
set  upon  Letters,  I  went  to  the  University ;  But  was  soon  torn 
from  thence  by  that  violent  Publick  storm  which  would  suiFer 
nothing  to  stand  where  it  did,  but  rooted  up  every  Plant,  even 
from  the  Princely  Cedars  to  Me,  the  Hyssop.  Vet  I  had  as 
eood  fortune  as  could  have  befallen  me  in  such  a  Tempest ;  for 
1  was  cast  by  it  into  the  Family  of  one  of  the  best  Persons,  and 
into  the  Court  of  one  of  the  best  Princesses  of  the  World. 
Now  though  I  was  here  engaged  in  wayes  most  contrary  to  the 
Original  design  of  my  life,  that  is,  into  much  company,  and  no 
small  business,  and  into  a  daily  sight  of  Greatness,  both  Militant 
and  Triumphant  (for  that  was  the  state  then  of  the  EngBsh  and 
French  Courts)  yet  all  this  was  so  far  from  altering  my  Opinion, 
that  it  onely  added  the  confirmation  of  Reason  to  that  which 
was  before  but  Natural  Inclination.  I  saw  plainly  all  the  Paint 
of  that  kind  of  Life,  the  nearer  I  came  to  it ;  and  that  Beauty 
which  I  did  not  fall  in  Love  with,  when,  for  ought  I  knew,  it 
was  real!,  was  not  like  to  bewitch,  or  intice  me,  when  I  saw 
that  it  was  Adulterate.  I  met  with  several  great  Persons,  whom 
I  liked  very  well,  but  could  not  perceive  that  any  part  of  their 
Greatness  was  to  be  liked  or  desired,  no  more  then  I  would  be 
glad,  or  content  to  be  in  a  Storm,  though  I  saw  many  Ships 
which  rid  safely  and  bravely  in  it :  A  storm  would  not  agree 
with  my  stomach,  if  it  did  with  my  Courage.  Though  I  was 
in  a  croud  of  as  good  company  as  could  be  found  any  where, 
though  I  was  in  business  of  great  and  honourable  trust,  though 
I  cate  at  the  best  Table,  and  enjoyed  the  best  conveniences  tor 
present  subsistance  that  ought  to  be  desired  by  a  man  of  my 
condition  in  banishment  and  publick  distresses ;  yet  I  could  not 
abstain  from  renewing  my  old  School-boys  Wish  in  a  Copy  of 
Verses  to  the  same  efieft. 

Well  then  ;   I  now  do  plainly  see 

This  busie  World  and  I  shall  ne're  agree,  ^c. 

And  I  never  then  proposed  to  my  self  any  other  advantage 
from  His  Majesties  Happy  Restoration,  but  the  getting  into 
some  moderately  convenient  Retreat  in  the  Country,  which  I 
thought  in  that  case  I  might  easily  have  compassed,  as  well  as 
some  others,  with   no  greater  probabilities  or  pretences  have 

458 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 

arrived  to  extraordinary  fortunes :  But  I  had  before  written  a 
shrewd  Prophesie  against  my  self,  and  I  think  Apollo  inspired 
me  in  the  Truth,  though  not  in  the  Elegance  of  it. 

TTiou,  neither  great  at  Court  nor  in  the  War,  SS^'^' 

Nor  at  th*  Exchange  shal't  be,  nor  at  the  wrangling  Barr; 
Content  thy  self  with  the  smsdl  barren  praise 
Which  negledled  Verse  does  raise,  £fff. 

However  by  the  failing  of  the  Forces  which  I  had  expelled,  I 
did  not  quit  the  Design  which  I  had  resolved  on,  I  cast  my  self 
into  it  A  Corps  Perdue^  without  making  capitulations,  or  taking 
counsel  of  Fortune.  But  God  laughs  at  a  Man,  who  sayes  to 
his  Soul,  Take  thy  ease  :  I  met  presently  not  onely  with  many 
little  encumbrances  and  impediments,  but  with  so  much  sick- 
ness (a  new  misfortune  to  me)  as  would  have  spoiled  the 
happiness  of  an  Emperour  as  well  as  Mine :  Yet  I  do  neither 
repent  nor  alter  my  course.  Non  ego  perfidum  Dixi  Sacramentum; 
Nothing  shall  separate  me  from  a  Mistress,  which  I  have  loved 
so  long,  and  have  now  at  last  married  ;  though  she  neither  has 
brought  me  a  rich  Portion,  nor  lived  yet  so  quietly  with  me  as 
I  hoped  from  Her. 

Nee  vosy  dulcissima  mundi 


Nomina^  vos  Mustty  LibertaSj  Otiaj  Libriy 
Hortique  Sylvaq;   anima  remanente  relinquam. 

Nor  by  me  ere  shall  you. 
You  of  all  Names  the  sweetest,  and  the  best. 
You  Muses,  Books,  and  Liberty  and  Rest ; 
You  Gardens,  Fields,  and  Woods  forsaken  be, 
As  long  as  Life  it  self  forsakes  not  Me. 

But  this  is  a  very  petty  Ejaculation  ;  because  I  have  con- 
cluded all  the  other  Chapters  with  a  Copy  of  Verses,  I  will 
maintain  the  Humour  to  the  last. 


459 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Martial.     L.   lo.     Ep.  47. 
f^tam  qua  faciunt  heatto\r'\eMy  &c. 

Since,  dearest  Friend,  'tis  your  desire  to  see 
A  true  Receipt  of  Happiness  from  Me ; 
These  are  the  chief  Ingredients,  if  not  all ; 
Talce  an  Estate  neither  too  great  nor  small, 
Which  Quantum  Suffidt  the  Doftors  call. 
Let  this  Estate  from  Parents  care  descend  ; 
The  getting  it  too  much  of  Life  does  spend. 
Take  such  a  Ground,  whose  gratitude  laxf  be 
A  fair  Encouragement  for  Industry. 
Let  constant  Fires  the  Winters  fury  tame  ; 
And  let  thy  Kitchens  be  a  Vestal  Flame. 
Thee  to  the  Town  let  never  Suit  at  Law ; 
And  rarely,  very  rarely  Business  draw. 
Thy  aflive  Mind  in  equal  Temper  keep, 
In  undisturbed  Peace,  yet  not  in  sleep. 
Let  Exercise  a  vigorous  Health  maintain. 
Without  which  all  the  Composition's  vain. 
In  the  same  weight  Prudence  and  Innocence  talce, 
And  of  each  does  the  just  mixture  make. 
But  a  few  Friendships  wear,  and  let  them  be 
By  Nature  and  by  Fortune  fit  for  thee. 
In  stead  of  Art  and  Luxury  in  food. 
Let  Mirth  and  Freedome  make  thy  Table  good. 
If  any  cares  into  thy  Day-time  creep. 
At  night,  without  Wines  Opium,  let  them  sleep. 
Let  rest,  which  Nature  does  to  Darkness  wed, 
And  not  Lust,  recommend  to  thee  thy  Bed, 
Be  satisfi'd,  and  pleas'd  with  what  thou  art ; 
A£l  chearfully  and  well  th'  alottcd  part, 
Enjoy  the  present  Hour,  be  thankful  for  the  Past, 
And  neither  fear,  nor  wish  th'  a[^roachea  of  the  last 


460 


ESSAYS,   IN   VERSE  AND   PROSE 


Martial  Book   lo.     Epigram  96. 

ME  who  have  liv'd  so  long  among  the  great, 
You  wonder  to  hear  talk  of  a  Retreat : 
And  a  retreat  so  distant,  as  may  show 
No  thoughts  of  a  return  when  once  I  go. 
Give  me  a  Country,  how  remote  so  e're. 
Where  happiness  a  moderate  rate  does  b&Eir, 
Where  poverty  it  self  in  plenty  (lowes, 
And  all  the  solid  use  of  Riches  knowes. 
The  ground  about  the  house  maintains  it  there. 
The  House  maintains  the  ground  about  it  here. 
Here  even  Hunger's  dear,  and  a  full  board. 
Devours  the  vital  substance  of  the  Lord. 
The  Land  it  self  does  there  the  feast  bestow. 
The  Land  it  self  must  here  to  Market  go. 
Three  or  four  suits  one  Winter  here  does  wast. 
One  suit  does  there  three  or  four  winters  last. 
Here  every  frugal  Man  must  oft  be  cold. 
And  little  Luke-warm-fires  are  to  you  sold. 
There  Fire's  an  Element  as  cheap  and  free. 
Almost  as  any  of  the  other  Three. 
Stay  you  then  here,  and  live  among  the  Great, 
Attend  their  sports,  and  at  their  tables  eat. 
When  all  the  bounties  here  of  Men  you  score : 
The  Places  bounty  there,  shall  give  me  more. 


Epitaphium  Vivi  Auftoris. 

H/f,  O  FiatoVy  sub  Lare  parvulo 
Couleius  Hie  est  CondituSy  Hie  Jaeet\ 
Defun£fus  humani  Laboris 

Sortfy  supervacudqui  vitd. 
Non  Indecorft  pauperie  Nitens^ 
Et  Non  inerti  mhi/is  otio, 
f^anique  diU^fis  popello 

Divitiis  animosus  hostis. 


461 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Possis  ut  ilium  dicere  mortuum ; 
En  Terra  jam  nunc  Quantula  sufficit  ? 
Exempta  sit  Curis^  viator, 

Terra  sit  ilia  LeviSy  precan. 
Hie  sparge  FloreS|  sparge  breves  Rosas, 
Nam  vita  gaudet  Mortua  FlorihuSj 
Herbisque  Odoratis  Corona 

f^atis  adhuc  Cinerem  Calentem. 


To  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  upon  bis  Marriage 
with  the  Lord  Fairfax  bis  Daughter. 


I. 

BEauty  and  strength  together  came, 
Even  from  the  Birth  with  Buckingham  ; 
The  little  aftive  Seeds  which  since  are  grown 

So  fair,  so  large  and  high. 
With  Life  it  self  were  in  him  sown; 
Honour  and  wealth  stood  like  the  Midwifes  by, 

To  take  the  Birth  into  their  happy  Hands, 
And  wrapt  him  warme  in  their  rich  swaddling  Bands 
To  the  great  Stock  the  thriving  Infant  soon 

Made  greater  Acquisitions  of  his  own; 
With  Beauty  generous  Goodness  he  Combin'd, 
Courage  to  Strength,  Judgment  to  Wit  he  joynM; 
He  pair'd,  and  match'd  his  Native  Virtues  right. 
Both  to  improve  their  use,  and  their  Delight. 

2. 

O  blest  Conjunftion  of  the  fairest  Stars, 
That  Shine  in  Humane  Natures  Sphere  ! 

But  O !    what  envious  Cloud  your  Influence  bars, 
111  fortune,  what  dost  thou  do  there  ? 
Hadst  thou  the  least  of  Modesty, 

Thou'dst  be  ashamM  that  we  should  see 

462 


TO   THE   DUKE   OF   BUCKINGHAM 

Thy  deform'd  Looks,  and  Dress,  in  such  a  Company: 
Thou  wert  deceiv'd,  rash  Goddess,  in  thy  hate, 

If  thou  dist  foolishly  believe 
That  thou  could'st  him  of  ought  deprive. 

But,  what  men  hold  of  thee,  a  great  Estate. 
And  here  indeed  thou  to  the  Aill  did  shew 

All  that  thy  Tyrant  Deity  could  do, 
His  Virtues  never  did  thy  power  obey, 
In  dissipating  Storms,  and  routed  Battles  they 
Did  close  and  constant  with  their  Captain  stay; 

They  with  him  into  Exile  went. 

And  kept  their  Home  in  Banishment. 
The  Noble  Youth  was  often  forc'd  to  flee 

From  the  insatiate  Rage  of  thee. 

Disguised,  and  Unknown; 
In  all  His  shap'es  they  always  kept  their  own, 
Nay,  with  the  Foil  of  darkness,  brighter  shone. 

And  might  Unwillingly  have  don, 
But,  that  just  Heaven  thy  wicked  Will  abhor'd, 
What  Virtues  most  detest,  might  have  betrayd  their  Lord. 


Ah  slothful  Lovtj  could'st  thou  with  patience  see 

Fortune  usurp  that  flowry  Spring  from  thee; 

And  nip  thy  rosy  Season  with  a  Cold, 

That  comes  too  soon,  when  Life's  short  year  grows  old. 

Love  his  gross  Error  saw  at  last. 
And  promis'd  large  amends  for  what  was  past. 
He  promis'd,  and  has  don  it,  which  is  more 
Than  I,  who  knew  him  long,  e'er  knew  him  do  before. 
H'  has  done  it  Nobly,  and  we  must  confess 
Could  do  no  more,  though  h'  ought  to  do  no  less. 
What  has  he  don?    he  has  repair'd 
The  Ruines  which  a  luckless  War  did  make. 

And  added  to  it  a  Reward 
Greater  than  Conquest  for  its  share  could  take. 
His  whole  Estate  could  not  such  gain  produce. 
Had  it  layd  out  a  hundred  years  at  use. 

463 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


Now  blessings  to  thy  Noble  choice  betide, 

Happy,  and  Happy-making  Bride. 
Though  thou  art  born  of  a  v  iflorious  Race, 
And  all  their  rougher  Viflorie  dost  grace 

With  gentle  Triumphs  of  thy  Face> 
Permit  us  in  this  milder  War  to  prize 
No  less  thy  yeilding  Heart,  than  thy  Victorious  Eyes. 

Nor  doubt  the  honour  of  that  field, 
Where  thou  didst  first  overcome,  e'er  thou  didst  yield. 

And  tho'  thy  Father's  Martial  Name 

Has  fill'd  the  Trumpets  and  the  Drums  of  Fame, 
Thy  Husband  triumphs  now  no  less  than  He, 

And  it  may  justly  qucstion'd  be, 

Which  was  the  Happiest  Conqueror  of  the  Three. 

S- 

There  is  in  Fate  (which  none  but  Poets  see) 

There  is  in  Fate  the  noblest  Poetry, 
And  she  has  shown,  Great  Dulce,  her  utmost  Art  in  Thee; 

For  after  all  the  troubles  of  thy  Scene, 

Which  so  confus'd,  and  intricate  have  been. 
She  has  ended  with  this  Match  thy  Tragicomedy; 
We  all  admire  it,  for  the  truth  to  tell, 
Our  Poet  Fate  ends  not  all  Plays  so  well ; 
But  this  she  as  her  Master-piece  does  boast, 

And  so  indeed  She  may; 
For  in  the  middle  Afls,  and  turnings  of  the  Play, 

Alas !  we  gave  our  Hero  up  for  Tost. 
All  men,  I  sec,  this  with  Applause  receive. 

And  now  let  me  have  leave, 
A  Servant  of  the  Person,  and  the  Art, 
To  Speak  this  Prologue  to  the  second  part. 


♦64 


POEM 


ON  THE  LATE 


CIVIL    WAR 


By  Mr.  Abraham  Cowley. 


[Design] 


London.,  Printed  1679. 


The   Publisher 


TO   THE 


READER. 


MEeting  accidentally  with  this  Poem  in  Manuscript^  and 
being  informed  that  it  was  a  Piece  of  the  incomparable 
Mr,  A  C'i,  /  thought  it  unjust  to  hide  such  a  Treasure  from 
the  World.  I  remember'^d  that  our  Author  in  his  Preface  to 
his  Works,  makes  mention  of  some  Poems  written  by  him  on 
the  late  Civil  War,  of  which  the  following  Copy  is  questionably 
a  part.  In  his  most  imperfe£f  and  unfinished  Pieces,  you  will 
discover  the  Hand  of  so  great  a  Master.  And  {whatever 
his  own  Modesty  might  have  advised  to  the  contrary)  there  is  not 
one  careless  stroke  of  his  but  what  should  be  kept  sacred  to 
Posterity.  He  could  write  nothing  that  was  not  vuorth  the  pre^ 
servingj  being  habitually  a  Poet  and  Always  Inspired.  In  this 
Piece  the  Judicious  Reader  will  find  the  Turn  of  the  Verse  to  be 
his'y  the  same  Copious  and  Lively  Imagery  of  Fancy,  the  same 
Warmth  of  Passion  and  Delicacy  of  Wit  that  sparkles  in  all  his 
Writings.  And  certainly  no  Labours  of  a  Genius  so  Rich  in  its 
self  and  so  Cultivated  with  Learning  and  Manners,  can  prove  an 
unwelcome  Present  to  the  World. 


466 


A 

POEM 

On  the  late 

CIVIL    WAR. 


WHat  Rage  docs  England  from  it  self  divide. 
More  than  the  Seas  from  all  the  World  beside. 
From  every  part  the  roaring  Cannons  play, 
From  evety  part  Blood  roars  as  loud  as  they. 
What  EHglith  Ground  but  still  some  Moisture  bears, 
Of  Young  Mens  Blood,  and  more  of  Mothers  Tears! 
What  Airs  unthiclcened  with  the  Sighs  of  Wives, 
The'  more  of  Maids  for  their  dear  Lovers  Lives. 
Alas,  what  Triumphs  can  this  Viflory  shew, 
That  dies  us  Red  in  Blood  and  Blushes  coo ! 
How  can  we  wish  that  Conquest,  which  bestows 
Cypress,  not  Bays,  upon  the  Conquering  Brows, 
It  was  not  so  when  Henry's  dreadful  Name, 
Not  Sword,  nor  Cause,  whole  Nations  overcame. 
To  farthest  West  did  his  swift  Conquests  run, 
Nor  did  his  Glory  set  but  with  the  Sun, 
In  vain  did  Ri>deric  to  his  Hold  retreat, 
In  vain  had  wretched  Ireland  call'd  him  Great. 
Ireland!   which  now  most  basely  we  begin 
To  labour  more  to  lose  than  he  to  win, 
It  was  not  so  when  in  the  happy  East, 
Richard  our  Atari,  f^enui's  Isle  possest. 
'Gainst  the  proud  Moon,  he  the  Englhh  Cross  display'd, 
£cclips'd  one  Horn,  and  the  other  paler  made. 
When  our  dear  Lives  we  ventured  bravely  there, 
And  digg'd  our  own  to  gain  Christs  Sepulchre. 
That  sacred  Tomb  which  should  we  now  enjoy, 
We  should  with  as  much  zeal  fight  to  destroy. 

CG2  467 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 

The  precious  Signs  of  our  dead  Lord  we  scorn. 
And  see  his  Cross  worse  than  his  Body  torn. 
We  hale  it  now  both  for  the  Grrei  and  Jtw, 
To  ua  'tis  Fo[o]lishness  and  Scandal  to[o]. 
To  what  with  Worship  the  fond  Papist  fiills, 
That  the  fond  Zealot  a  cursed  Idol  calls. 
So,  'twixt  their  double  Madness  here's  the  odds, 
One  makes  false  Devils,  t'other  tnalces  false  Gods. 

It  was  not  so  when  Edward  prov'd  his  Cause, 
By  a  Sword  stronger  than  the  Saliquc  Laws. 
Tho  fetched  from  Pharamond,  when  the  French  did  Bght, 
With  Womens  Hearts  against  the  Womens  Right. 
The  affliiSed  Ocean  his  first  Conquest  bore, 
And  drove  Red  Waves  to  the  sad  GalUgue  Shore: 
As  if  he  had  Angry  with  that  Element  been, 
Which  his  wide  hou!  bound  with  an  Island   in. 
Where's  now  that  spirit  with  which  ac  Cressey  we. 
And  Poi£iien  forced  from  fate  a  Victory? 
Two  Kings  at  once  we  brought  sad  Captives  hotnc^ 
A  Triumph  scarcely  known  to  ancient  Remt; 
Two  Foreign  Kings,  but  now  alas  we  strive, 
Our  own,  our  own  good  Soveraign  to  Captive  1 

It  was  not  so  when  Agincaurt  was  won, 
Under  great  Henry  served  the  Rain  and  Sun, 
A  Nobler  Fight  the  Sun  himself  ne'r  knew. 
Not  when  he  stop'd  his  Course  a  Fight  to  view ! 
Then  Death's  old  Archer  did  more  skilful  grow, 
And  learned  to  shoot  more  sure  from  th*  English  bow ; 
Then  France  was  her  own  story  sadly  taught. 
And  felt  how  Casar  and  how  Edward  fought. 

It  was  not  so  when  that  vast  Fleet  of  Spain, 
Lay  torn  and  scatter'd  on   the  English  Main ; 
Through  the  proud  World,  a  Virgin,  terror  struck. 
The  Austrian  Crowns  and  Rome's  seven  hills  she  shook ; 
To  her  great  Neptune  Homaged  all  his  Streams 
And  all  the  wide-stretched  Ocean  was  her  Thames. 
Thus  our  Fore-Fathers  Fought,  Thus  bravely  bled, 
Thus  still  they  live,  whit'st  we  alive  are  dead; 
Such  Ai\s  they  did  that  Rome  and  Casar  too, 
Might  Envy  those,  whom  once  they  did  subdue. 
468 


ON   THE   LATE   CIVIL   WAR 

We're  not  their  ofiUpring,  sure  our  Heralds  Lie, 
But  Born  we  know  not  how,  as  now  we  Die; 
Their  precious  Blood  we  could  not  venture  thus: 
Some  Cadmus  sure  sowM  Serpents  teeth  for  us; 
We  could  not  else  by  mutual  Fury  fall, 
Whilst  Rhine  and  Sequan  for  our  Armies  call: 
Chuse  War  or  Peace,  you  have  a  Prince  you  know. 
As  fit  for  both,  as  both  are  fit  for  you. 
Furious  as  Lightning  when  Wars  Tempest  came, 
But  Calm  in  Peace,  Calm  as  a  Lambent  Flame. 

Have  you  forgot  those  happy  years  of  late. 
That  saw  nought  ill,  but  us  that  were  Ingrate; 
Such  years,  as  if  Earths  youth  Returned  had  been. 
And  that  old  Serpent  Time  had  Cast  his  Skin : 
As  Gloriously,  and  Gently  did  they  move. 
As  the  bright  Sun  that  Measures  them  above; 
Then  onely  in  Books  the  Learn'd  could  misery  see, 
And  the  Unlearned  ne're  heard  of  Misery. 
Then  happy  James  with  as  deep  Quiet  Reigned, 
As  in  His  heavenly  Throne,  by  Death,  he  gained. 
And  least  this  blessing  with  his  Life  should  Cease, 
He  left  us  Charles  the  Pledge  of  future  Peace. 
Charles  under  whom,  with  much  ado,  no  less 
Than  sixteen  years,  we  endur'd  our  happiness; 
Till  in  a  Moment,  in  the  North  we  find, 
A  Tempest  Conjured  up  without  a  Wind. 
As  soon  the  North  her  Kindness  did  Repent, 
First  the  Peace-Maker,  and  next  War  she  sent: 
Just  Tweed  that  now  had  with  long  Peace  forgot 
On  which  side  dwelt  the  English^  which  the  Scot: 
Saw  glittering  Arms  shine  sadly  on  his  face; 
WhiPst  all  the  affrighted  Fish  sank  down  apace; 
No  blood  did  then  from  this  dark  Quarrel  grow. 
It  gave  blunt  wounds,  that  bled  not  out  till  now! 
For  yove^  who  might  have  us'd  his  thundring  power, 
Chose  to  fall  calmly  in  a  Golden  showre! 
A  way  we  found  to  Conquer,  which  by  none 
Of  all  our  thrifty  Ancestors  was  known ; 
So  strangly  Prodigal  of  late  we  are. 
We  there  buy  Peace,  and  here  at  home  buy  War. 

469 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY 

How  could  a  war  so  sad  and  barbarous  please, 
But  first  by  slandring  those  blest  days  of  Peace? 
Through  all  the  Excrements  of  State  they  pry, 
Like  Emp'ricks  to  find  out  a  Malady; 
And  then  with   Desperate  boldness  they  endeavor, 
Th'  Ague  to  cure  by  bringing  in  a  Feavor: 
The  way  is  sure  to  expel  some  ill  no  doubt, 
The  Plague  we  know,  drives  all  Diseases  out. 
What  strange  wild  fears  did  every  Morning  breed. 
Till  a  strange  fancy  made  us  sick  indeed? 
And  Cowardise  did  Valours  place  supply. 
Like  those  that  kill  themselves  for  fear  to  die ! 
What  frantick  Diligence  in  these  Men  appears. 
That  fear  all  Ills,  and  aft  o'r  all  their  Fears? 
Thus  into  War  we  scared  ourselves;   and  who 
But  Aaran^%  Sons,  that  the  first  Trumpet  blew. 
Fond  Men !    who  knew  not  that  they  were  to  keep 
For  God,  and  not  for  Sacrifice,  their  Sheep. 
The  Churches  first  this  Murderous  Doftrine  sow, 
And  learn  to  Kill  as  well  as  Bury  now. 
The  Marble  Tombs  where  our  Fore-fathers  lie, 
Sweated  with  dread  of  too  much  company; 
And  all  their  sleeping  Ashes  shook  for  fear. 
Least  thousand  Ghosts  should  come  and  shroud  them  there. 

Petitions  next  from  every  Town  they  frame, 
To  be  restored  to  them  from  whom  they  came. 
The  same  stile  all,  and  the  same  sense  does  pen, 
Alas,  they  allow  set  Forms  of  Prayer  to  Men. 
Oh  happy  we,  if  Men  would  neither  hear 
Their  studied  Form,  nor  God  their  sudden  Prayer. 
They  will  be  heard,  and  in  unjustest  wise, 
The  many-Headed   Rout  for  Justice  cries. 
They  call  for  Blood,  which  now  I  fear  does  call 
For  Blood  again,  much  louder  than  they  all. 
In  sensless  Clamours,  aJid  confused  Noise, 
We  lost  that  rare,  and  yet  unconquer'd  Voice: 
So  when  the  sacred   Thrncian  Lyre  was  drown'd. 
In  the  Biitanlan  Womens  mixed  sound. 
The  wondriiig  Stones,  that  came  before  to  hear, 
Forgot  themselves,  and  turn'd  his  Murderers  there. 
470 


ON   THE   LATE   CIVIL  WAR 

The  same  loud  Storm,  blew  the  Grave  Mitre  down; 
It  blew  down  that,  and  with  it  shook  the  Crown, 
Then  first  a  State^  without  a  Church  begun ; 
Comfort  thy  self  dear  Churchy  for  then  'twas  done. 
The  same  great  Storm,  to  Sea  great  Mary  drove, 
The  Sea  could  not  such  dangerous  Tempests  move. 
The  same  drove  Charles  into  the  North,  and  then 
Would  Readilier  hr  have  driven  him  back  agen. 
To  fly  from  noise  of  Tumults  is  no  shame, 
Nc'r  will  their  Armies  force  them  to  the  same: 
They  all  his  Castles,  all  his  Towns  invade. 
He's  a  large  Prisoner  in  all  England  made ! 
He  must  not  pass  to  Irelands  weeping  Shore, 
The  Wounds  these  Surgeons  make  must  yield  them  more: 
He  must  not  conquer  his  lewd  Rebels  there, 
Least  he  should  learn  by  that  to  do  it  here. 
The  Sea  they  subjeft  next  to  their  command. 
The  Sea  that  Crowns  our  Kings  and  all  their  Land. 
Thus  poor  they  leave  him,  their  base  Pride  and  Scorn, 
As  poor  as  these,  now  mighty  Men,  were  born. 
When  straight  whole  Armies  meet  in  Charle[sy^  Right, 
How  no  Man  knows,  but  here  they  are  and  Fight. 
A  Man  would  swear  that  saw  this  altered  State, 
Kings  were  called  Gods,  because  they  could  Create 
Vain  Men ;   'tis  Heaven  this  first  Assistance  brings. 
The  same  is  Lord  of  Hosts,  that's  King  of  Kings. 
Had  Men  forsook  him.  Angels  from  above, 
(The  Assyrian  did  less  their  Justice  move.) 
Would  all  have  mustered  in  his  Righteous  Aid, 
And  Thunder  against  your  Cannon  would  have  play'd. 
It  needs  not  so,  for  Man  desires  to  right 
Abused  Mankind,  and  wretches  you  must  fight. 
Worster  first  saw't,  and  trembled  at  the  view, 
Too  well  the  Ills  of  Civil  War  she  knew. 
Twice  did  the  Flames  of  old  her  Towers  invade. 
Twice  call'd  she  in  vain  for  her  own  Sevenths  Aid. 
Here  first  the  Rebel  Winds  began  to  roar. 
Brake  loose  from  the  just  Fetters  which  they  bore. 
Here  Mutinous  Waves  above  their  shore  did  swell, 
And  the  first  Storm  of  that  Dire  Winter  fell. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

But  when  the  two  great  Brethren  once  appeared, 
And  their  bright  Heads  h'ke  Leda\  oiF-spring  rearM, 
When  those  Sea-calming  Sons,  from  Jove  were  spied. 
The  Winds  all  fled,  the  Waves  all  sunk  and  died ! 
How  fought  great  Rupert^  with  what  Rage  and  Skill? 
Enough  to  have  Conquered  had  his  Cause  been  ill ! 
Comelv  Young  Man;   and  yet  his  dreadful  sight, 
The  Rebels  Blood  to  their  faint  Hearts  does  fright. 
In  vain  alas  it  seeks  so  weak  defence; 
For  his  keen  Sword  brings  it  again  from  thence: 
Yet  grieves  he  at  the  Lawrels  thence  he  bore; 
Alas  poor  Prince,  they'll  fight  with  him  no  more. 
His  Vertue  will  be  eclipsed  with  too  much  Fame, 
Henceforth  he  will  not  Conquer,  but  his  Name: 

Here  with  tainted  Blood  the  Field  did  stain. 

By  his  own  Sacri ledge,  and's  Countrys  Curses  slain. 
The  first  Commander  did  Heavens  Vengeance  shew. 
And  led  the  Rebels  Van  to  shades  below. 

On  two  fair  Hills  both  Armies  next  are  seen, 
The  affrighted  Valley  sighs  and  sweats  between; 
Here  Angeh  did,  with  fair  Expedlance  stay, 
And  wish'd  good  things  to  a  King  as  mild  as  they; 
There  Fiends  with  hunger  waiting  did  abide. 
And  Cursed  both,  but  spurr'd  on  the  guilty  side. 
Here  stood  Religion^  her  looks  gently  sage, 
Aged,  but  much  more  comely  for  her  Age ! 
There  Schism  Old  Hagg,  tho'  seeming  young  appears. 
As  Snakes  by  casting  skins.  Renew  their  years; 
Undecent  Rags  of  several  Dies  she  wore. 
And  in  her  hand  torn  Liturgies  she  bore. 
Here  Loyalty  an  humble  Cross  display'd. 
And  still  as  Charles  pass'd  by,  she  bow'd  and  pray*d. 
Sedition  there  her  Crimson  Banner  spreads. 
Shakes  all  her  Hands,  and  roars  with  all  her  Heads. 
Her  knotty  Hairs  were  with  dire  Serpents  twist. 
And  every  Serpent  at  each  other  hist. 
Here  stood  IVhite  Truthy  and  her  own  Host  does  bless, 
Clad  with  those  Armes  of  Proof  lier  Nakedness. 
There  Perjuries  like  Cannons  roar  aloud. 
And  Lies  flew  thick,  like  Cannons  smoaky  Cloud. 

473t 


ON  THE   LATE   CIVIL   WAR 

Here  Learning  and  th'  Arts  met,  as  much  they  fcar'd 
As  when  the  Hunns  of  old  and  Goths  appear'd. 
What  should  they  do,  unapt  themselves  to  fight. 
They  promised  noble  Pens  the  Afts  to  write. 
There  Ignorance  advanced,  and  joy'd  to  spy 
So  many  that  durst  fight  they  know  not  why. 
From  those,  who  most  the  slow-soul'd  Monks  disdain, 
From  those  she  hopes  the  Monks  dull  Age  again. 
Here  Mercy  waits  with  sad  but  gentle  look, 
Never  alass  had  she  her  Charles  forsook! 
For  Mercy  on  her  Friends,  to  Heaven  she  cries, 
Whilst  Justice  pulls  down  Vengeance  from  the  Skies. 
Oppression  there.  Rapine  and  Murder  stood 
Ready  as  was  the  Field  to  drink  their  Blood. 
A  thousand  wronged  Spirits  amongst  them  moan'd. 
And  thrice  the  Ghost  of  mighty  Strafford  groan'd. 

Now  flew  their  Cannon  thick  through  wounded  Air, 
Sent  to  defend,  and  kill  their  Soveraign  there. 
More  than  he  them,  the  Bullets  feared  his  Head, 
And  at  his  Feet  lay  innocently  Dead. 
They  knew  not  what  those  Men  that  sent  them  meant. 
And  adled  their  pretence  not  their  intent. 

This  was  the  Day,  this  the  first  Day  that  shewM 
How  much  to  Charles  for  our  long  Peace  we  ow'd: 
By  his  Skill  here,  and  Spirit  we  understood, 
From  War  naught  kept  him  but  his  Countries  good. 
In  his  great  Looks,  what  chearful  Anger  shone. 
Sad  War^  and  joyful  Triumphs  mixed  in  one. 
In  the  same  Beams  of  his  Majestick  Eye, 
His  own  Men  Life,  his  Foes  did  Death  espy. 
Great  Rupert  this,  that  Wing  great  Willmott  leads. 
White-feathered  Conquest,  flies  o'r  both  their  Heads. 
They  charge,  as  if  alone,  they'd  beat  the  Foe; 
Whether  their  Troops  followed  them  up  or  no. 
They  follow  close  and  haste  into  the  fight, 
As  swift  as  strait  the  Rebels  made  their  flight. 
So  swift  the  Miscreants  fly,  as  if  each  fear 
And  jealousie  they  framed,  had  met  them  there. 
They  heard  Wars  Musick,  and  away  they  flew. 
The  Trumpets  fright  worse  than  the  Organs  do. 

473 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Their  Souls  which  still,  new  by-ways  do  invent, 
Out  at  their  wounded  Backs  perversly  went. 
Pursue  no  more,  ye  Noble  f^i^fors  stay. 
Least  too  much  Conquest  lose  so  brave  a  day: 
For  still  the  Battail  sounds  behind,  and  Fate 
Will  not  give  all;    but  sets  us  here  a  Rate: 
Too  dear  a  rate  she  sets,  and  we  must  pay 
One  honest  Man,  for  ten  such  Knaves  as  they. 
Streams  of  Black  tainted  Blood  the  Field  besmear, 
But  pure  well  coloured  drops  shine  here  and  there: 
They  scorn  to  mix  with  flouds  of  baser  veines. 
Just  as  the  nobler  moisture,  Oyl  disdains. 
Thus  fearless  Lindsey^  thus  bold  AubtgnVj 
Amid'st  the  Corps  of  slaughtered  Rebels  lie : 

More  honourably  than e'r  was  found. 

With  troops  of  living  Traytors  circled  round. 
Rest  valiant  Souls  in  peace,  ye  sacred  pair, 
And  all  whose  Deaths  attenaed  on  you  there: 
You'r  kindly  welcomed  to  Heavens  peaceful  coast. 
By  all  the  reverend  Martyrs  Noble  Host. 
Your  soaring  Souls  they  meet  with  triumph,  all 
Led  by  great  Stephen  their  old  General. 

Go now  prefer  thy  flourishing  State, 

Above  those  murdered  Heroes  doleful  fate. 

Enjoy  that  life  which  thou  durst  basely  save, 

And  thought'st  a  Saw-pit  nobler  than  a  Grave, 

Thus  many  saved  themselves,  and  Night  the  rest. 

Night  that  agrees  with  their  dark  Anions  best. 

A  dismal  shade  did  Heavens  sad  Face  o'r  flow. 

Dark  as  the  night,  slain  Rebels  found  below. 

No  gentle  Stars  their  chearful  Glories  rear'd, 

Ashamed  they  were  at  what  was  done,  and  fear'd 

Least  wicked  Men  their  bold  excuse  should  frame 

From  some  strange  Influence,  and  so  vail  their  shame. 

To  Duty  thus.  Order  and  Law  incline. 

They  who  ne'r  Err  from  one  eternal  Line. 

As  just  the  Ruin  of  these  Men  they  thought. 

As  Sisera\  was,  'gainst  whom  themselves  had  fought. 

Still  they  Rebellions  ends  remember  well 

Since  Lucifer  the  Great,  their  shining  Captain  fell. 

474 


ON   THE   LATE   CIVIL  WAR 

For  this  the  Bells  they  ring,  and  not  in  vain, 

Well  might  they  all  ring  out  for  thousands  slain. 

For  this  the  Bonefires,  their  glad  Lightness  spread, 

When  Funeral  Flames  might  more  befit  their  dead. 

For  this  with  solemn  thanks  they  tire  their  God^ 

And  whilst  they  feel  it,  mock  th*  Almighties  Rod. 

They  proudly  now  abuse  his  Justice  more, 

Than  his  long  Mercies  they  abu'sd  before. 

Yet  these  the  Men  that  true  Religion  boast, 

The  Pure  and  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Host! 

What  great  reward  for  so  much  Zeal  is  given? 

Why,  Heaven  has  thankM  them  since  as  they  thank'd  Heaven. 

Witness  thou  Brainford^  say  thou  Ancient  Town, 
How  many  in  thy  Streets  fell  grovelling  down. 
Witness  the  Red  Coats  weltering  in  their  Gore, 
And  died  anew  into  the  Name  they  bore. 
Witness  their  Men  blowed  up  into  the  Air, 
All  Elements  their  Ruins  joyed  to  share. 
In  the  wide  Air  quick  Flames  their  Bodies  tore. 
Then  drown'd  in  Waves,  thei'r  tost  by  Waves  to  shore. 
Witness  thou  Thames^  thou  wast  amazed  to  see 
Men  madly  run  to  save  themselves  in  thee. 
In  vain,  for  Rebels  Lives  thou  woul[d]st  not  save. 
And  down  they  sunk  beneath  thy  conquering  Wave. 
Good  reverend  Thames^  the  best  beloved  of  all 
Those  noble  Blood,  that  meet  at  Neptune's  Hall; 
Londonh  proud  Towers^  which  do  thy  Head  adorn, 
Arc  not  thy  Glory  now,  but  Grief  and  Scorn. 
Thou  grievest  to  see  the  fVhite  named  Palace  shine, 
Without  the  Beams  of  it's  own  Lord  and  thine: 
Thy  Lord  which  is  to  all  as  good  and  free. 
As  thou  kind  Flood  to  thine  own  Banks  can  be. 
How  does  thy  peaceful  Back  disdain  to  bear 
The  Rebels  busie  Pride  at  IVestminster, 
Thou  who  thy  self  doest  without  murmuring  pay 
Eternal  Tribute  to  thy  Prince  the  Sea. 

To  Oxford  next  Great  Charles  in  Triumph  came, 
Oxford  the  British  Muses  second  Fame. 
Here  Learning  with  some  State  and  Reverence  looks. 
And  dwells  in  Buildings  lasting  as  her  Books; 

475 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 

Both  now  Eternal,  but  they  had  Ashes  been, 
Had  these  Religious  f^andah  once  got  in. 
Not  Bodley*s  Noble  Work  their  Rage  would  spare, 
For  Books  they  know  the  chief  Malignants  arc. 
In  vain  they  silence  every  Age  before, 
For  Pens  of  Time  to  come  will  wound  them  more. 
The  Temples  decent  Wealth,  and  modest  State, 
Had  suffered,  this  their  Avarice,  that  their  Hate. 
Beggary  and  Scorn  into  the  Church  they'd  bring, 
And  make  God  Glorious,  as  they  made  the  King. 
O  happy  Town,  that  to  Lov'd  Charleses  Sight, 
In  those  sad  Times  givest  Safety  and  Delight. 
The  Fate  which  Civil  War  it  self  doth  bless. 
Scarce  wouldst  thou  change;    for  Peace  this  happiness. 
Amidst  all  Joys  which  Heaven  allows  thee  here, 
Think  on